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8 / ‘ 









HEARTS COURAGEOUS 












































HEARTS 

COURAGEOUS 

BYHALLIE ERMINIE RIVES 

ILLUSTRATED BY A. B. WENZELL 



THE BOBBS-MERRIIX COMPANY, INDIANAPOLIS 


c\«\0 2»i 



.^524 


y\ Uy 

Copyright 1902 ’ \ 

The Bowen-Merrill CompanV 


May 


All Rights Reserved 


3 &i 3 


1 


PRESS OF 

BRAUNWORTH & CO. 
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS 
BROOKLYN, N. Y. 


TO 

FRANCIS BAZLEY LEE 


i 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB 


page 

I 

Sleeping Fires 

1 

II 

A Forest Demosthenes 

24 

III 

Horse and Away 

44 

IV 

The Freight oe the “ Two Sisters 99 

60 

V 

The Toss of a Coin 

83 

VI 

Two in a Chariot 

101 

VII 

The Making of a Marquis 

115 

VIII 

I Pledge You a Brave Man 

129 

IX 

A Glimpse of Hearts 

143 

X 

Night at Greenway Court 

156 

XI 

When a Woman Dreams 

175 

XII 

Enter, a Poet 

185 

XIII 

Love’s Supreme Surrender 

205 

XIV 

The Hour and The Man 

215 

XV 

The Dance Above the Volcano 

230 

XVI 

The Packet 

247 

XVII 

In the Balance 

263 

XVIII 

For Life or For Honor 

277 

XIX 

The Great Sundering 

292 

XX 

The Wake of War 

312 

XXI 

In the Trenches 

338 

XXII 

A Parley with Death 

360 

XXIII 

Behind the Barricade 

373 

XXIV 

The Passing of the Old Regime 

391 





















HEARTS COURAGEOUS 



HEARTS COURAGEOUS 

CHAPTER I 

SLEEPING FIRES 

In the year of grace 1774, a climbing sun glowed 
above his Majesty^s Colony of Virginia. It drank 
the opal mists of the marshes, flecked the fields into 
shadow-haunted cloth-of-gold, and so unrolled over 
the old “middle plantation,” — where, a round cen- 
tury before. Bacon and his men had taken the oath 
against England, — a drowsing, yellow mid-May 
afternoon. 

Two quickened rivers, like silver girdles un- 
clasped, wound through the lowland, from where 
phantom-far lay the shadows of pines against the 
color-washed line of sky, sharp-edged and black, in 
gigantic pointed fronds. The rivers rolled broadly 
to the sea, holding between them a green valley 
sweet with the warm perfumes of leaf and flower, 
and this valley folded to its heart Williamsburg, 
the gay little capital. 

The teal and mallard that winged over from York 
to James looked down thereon and saw a single 
1 


2 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


broad thoroughfare shaded by poplars and mul- 
berries, with William and Mary College at one end 
and the new Capitol at the other. Straggling 
streets of wide-porched houses bordered with gar- 
dens debouched upon this; and spreading away in 
all directions, like gathered ribbons — by league- 
long plantation and through broken forest — went 
tawny, twisting roads. 

Along one of these roads, by clumps of rustling 
laurel, came a great coach with green body and 
brown cloth, bearing the arms of the Tillotsons of 
Gladden Hall. A black body-servant rode behind 
it a-horseback. 

The coach, which rolled thumping and swinging 
ponderously where the way was rugged, pleasantly 
and lightly where the road was smooth, held a 
matron and a slender girl. The latter was of that 
age when nature paints with her richest brush. 
Her hair was a wave of russet lights, with shadows 
of warmer brown. Her face, rose-stained, was the 
texture of a rose. Her mouth, below serious eyes 
of blended blue, gave a touch of wilfulness. If 
there was intentness on the brow, so was there lan- 
guor in the lips, red, half-ripe, the upper short and 
curved to smile. She was all raptures — all sap- 
phire and rose-gold, against the dark cushion. 

Both, as they rode, were silent, looking out 


SLEEPING FIKES 


3 


through’ either wide window upon the warm, scent- 
steeped glimpses of the way. All along were wav- 
ing reaches of wheat, where the poppy flung its 
wrinkled splash of red, or acres of young growing 
tobacco, wherein sweating slaves toiled listlessly, 
their songs woven with the undertone of the slug- 
gish stream, slashed by reviling oaths and whip- 
crackings of a bearish overseer. At the dusty edges 
of the road thistle and wild honeysuckle scram- 
bled for their breath, and cowslips went spinning 
yellow ribbons. It was a slumberous land, swathed 
in a tremulous haze of heat and a wash of sun. 

“Anne,” said the matron at length, withdrawing 
her gaze from the window. 

“Yes, aunt Mildred.” 

“Do you intend to treat that boy badly?” 

The girl was silent, gazing across the fields, 
watching the birds’ slender flashings in the olive 
hollows. 

“You haven’t answered my question.” 

“What question?” 

“Do you intend to treat that boy badly?” 

“What boy ?” inquired Anne with a sweetness that 
boded other things. 

“Francis Byrd.” 

“I intend to treat him as I always have. No 
better, no worse.” 


4 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“The world has changed since my time,” reflected 
Mrs. Tillotson. “Maids deemed themselves lucky 
to have one gallant and wasted small time in wed- 
ding. Last winter I thought it had been Captain 
Jarrat. Now he is left for Molly Byrd to make 
eyes at — the way that woman acts! So I suppose 
it will be with Francis.” 

“Let them cease arranging things for ;ne, then/* 
cried Anne. “I will not be put up and bargained 
for. I will be the subject of no family councils. 
I will wed when and whom I please.” 

Her aunt looked a bit startled at the outburst. 

“Of course, of course,” she assented mildly. 
“But you don’t please. You’re eighteen — two 
years older than I was when I married your 
uncle. Francis Byrd of Westover is the pick of 
them all.” 

“He is a mere boy.” Anne’s tone held a grow- 
ing impatience. 

“He is not too young,” went on Mrs. Tillotson, 
“to take stock of all you say. But remember, dear, 
that he is to wear the royal colors now. ’Tis all 
well enough for you and me to be open Whigs — we 
don’t have to do any oath-taking, and they don’t 
hang us. But king’s men can not be so free of 
tongue.” 

Anne turned upon her. 


SLEEPING FIRES 


5 


“I know the rest of it!” she cried. “Francis is 
spending time at Alberti’s rooms — my fault. Fran- 
cis is making a friend of Patrick Henry — my fault ! 
Francis has a mind of his own, hasn’t he? If he 
chooses so, well and good. Aunt Mildred, there will 
be a day when any Virginian will be proud to be 
a friend of Patrick Henry’s!” 

The lady shook her head not unkindly. “Your 
mother over again, Anne,” she said. “Loyal and 
true. Ah, me!” 

She was silent, but Anne knew of what she was 
thinking. After a time she put her hand over and 
touched the girl’s. “Keep your friendships, child, 
if you like them,” she said. “I have naught against 
Mr. Henry. I like him, and the colonel values him 
most highly. Only — Byrd is a good lad; too good 
to be hurt.” 

“Here is the shop,” Anne said presently, as the 
coach stopped before the sign of a mercer. “I shall 
drive awhile and return for you in an hour. Won’t 
you take John-the-Baptist with you and buy that 
turban for Mammy Evaline? What color did she 
want, John-the-Baptist?” she called to her body- 
servant. 

The lank, loose- jointed, strapping figure of sol- 
emn countenance, who sat a sorrel behind the 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


coach, spurring alongside the window, broke out 
in wide smiles. 

“Mammy want er maz’reen-blue, Mis’ Anne. 
Dat whut I hearn her say.” 

“Now, don’t go over the hour,” Mrs. Tillotson 
reminded, as her niece bowled away, and she sighed 
as she looked after her. 

The coach had entered Williamsburg from the 
north and now turned into Duke of Gloucester 
Street, where stood an embowered mansion — the 
town house of the Byrds of West over. Here at the 
gate fluttered two girls who waved hands and called 
eagerly to the solitary occupant. 

“Anne ! Anne !” they cried, as the coachman drew 
up at the horse-block. “Come and tell us what 
you are to wear to the ball to-morrow.” 

“I don’t know, Betsy,” replied Anne, jumping 
down. 

“Pshaw!” rallied Mistress Byrd. “Just as if we 
believed that, when you know you will be looked at 
more than the new-arrived Lady Dunmore!” 

Anne kissed the younger one— -Paulina Cabell, 
slight, olive-eyed, a pretty, pouting slip of a girl, 
wriggling to be grown up. “Your eyes are red, 
sweetheart,” said she. 

“I have been reading ‘Lady Julia Mandeville/ ” 


SLEEPING FIRES 


7 


Paulina complained. “I never cried so in my life 
reading a novel. The tale is beautiful, but the 
ending is horrid!” 

“You’ll stay to supper, of course,” asked Betsy, 
linking an arm in Anne’s. “Brother Frank will 
fetch you home.” 

“Not to-day.” 

“Mother will want to tell you about Frank’s 
royal commission,” pursued Betsy. “Come in for 
a moment. Do.” 

But the mistress of Westover was otherwise oc- 
cupied. In fact, the girls entered the wide, cool 
hall to find a storm lowering. 

Mrs. Byrd was not only young, pretty, a second 
wife, and the possessor of a husband who was one 
of the governor’s Council, but she was conscious 
of all these things. 

Her husband did not remember as often as did 
she that the gay colonel, his father, had been bosom 
friend of the learned Charles Boyle in England and 
a Fellow of the Royal Society. She reminded him 
frequently of the fact that the old wit had been a 
scholar and had left to Westover, where he lay 
under a monument in the garden, the best private 
library in the Colonies, not even excepting that of 
Mr. John Bordley of Maryland, — and a garret full 


8 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


of writings. His portrait hung there — a face as 
clear and as beautiful as a woman’s, framed in a 
curling peruke of the time of Queen Anne. 

As for the present master of West over, much to 
her irritation, he cared little more for sight of St. 
James than for the heaped-up manuscripts in the 
garret. He contented himself with sitting in the 
Council chamber at Williamsburg and riding after 
foxes at Westover, when his gout let him. 

Now Mrs. Byrd, consciously impressive, leaned 
against the white paneling in a posture which showed 
her plump figure to advantage. 

“’Tis high time,” she was saying, settling the 
yellow point de Venise at her throat, “that Francis 
be spoken to about it. (Come in, Anne.)” 

The colonel, bowing as gallantly to Anne as his 
gouty leg propped on a chair would permit, shifted 
his powdered wig in some discomfort. 

“Frank will get no harm from Patrick Henry,” 
he said. “He is too sensible.” 

“Mayhap you call it no harm, sir,” persisted Mrs. 
Byrd, “to see your son — you a member of the 
Council — hobbing with that shiftless wag. Sooth, 
then, I do! The malt-bugs of the tavern are his 
betters, (No, don’t go, Anne !) Francis is daft about 
him, sir. And the boy’s royal commission just come. 
Oh, ’tis too bad!” 


SLEEPING FIRES 


9 


Colonel Byrd straightened his ruffles carefully. 

“You go to the ball, of course, Anne?” he asked. 

But his wife was not to be shut off. 

“Small preferment,” the lady went on, “will 
Francis get from Lord Dunmore if he continues. 
The governor keeps himself informed. Every one 
knows that Patrick Henry is the very front of all 
these rebel doings I (Yes, you need give me no 
look, Anne. ’Tis the word I meant to use. Rebel 
doings. Rebel doings!) And for my son — a Will- 
ing— to— ” 

“Zounds! Your son is a Byrd, ma’am!” This 
from the colonel. 

“For my son to associate with a low country 
demagogue, half the time dressed in buckskins 
like that shabby burgess from Louisa County you 
brought to dinner last week, and to go to his crazy 
meetings at the Raleigh ! I thought his stay abroad 
would have weaned Frank of that. That and the 
commission. But no! He comes home talking the 
gibberish of that mealy-mouth Charles Fox that he 
learned in his dreadful London club. I look yet 
to see him put off his king’s uniform and disgrace 
us all.” 

“Pshaw!” said Colonel Byrd, nevertheless un- 
easily. “Frank’s all right. The young blade will 
take to the army like a duck to water. Zooks! 


10 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


There is no harm in the Apollo Room. Jefferson is 
steady enough, and he is ever there.” 

“Tom Jefferson!” ejaculated the lady. “Think 
you he is much better? A free-thinker! He and 
Henry are pitch and toss. La! A squeak of a fid- 
dle, and both of them will dance! Jefferson used 
to be gay enough with it at Governor Fauquier’s 
musickings. Everybody knows he spends half his 
time when he is in Williamsburg at the rooms of 
that papist actor Alberti, and so does Henry. I 
marvel if Francis does not know him, too,” 

The colonel sighed. If the truth must he told, 
the same uneasiness was in his soul. But, being 
masculine, he did not admit it to his wife. 

“I’ll lay a crown you’ll dance with Master Henry 
to-morrow night, Anne,” volunteered Betsy wickedly. 

Anne was looking through the large window, 
sashed with crystal glass, and there were little blue 
sparks snapping in her eyes. She made no reply, 
but under her skirt-edge, her red slipper, like a 
burnished tongue, went tapping the polished floor. 

“I should think, Anne,” remarked Mrs. Byrd, 
with acidity, toying with a rose- jar from which the 
Duke of Cumberland had once plucked a bud, “that 
you would have more regard for your bringing up. 
I never had to be reminded of mine.” 


SLEEPING FIRES 


II 


Mrs. Byrd never looked younger or more hand- 
some than when remembering this. In her sonl the 
soothing and ever-present consciousness of being 
born a Willing of Philadelphia was embalmed like 
a fly in amber. If she could have had her way, she 
would have had the master of Westover dining at 
four, like the Cadwaladers and Shippens and the 
rest of the Church of England set there. 

“A Tillotson,” she continued raptly, “dancing at 
the burgesses’ ball with the husband of a tavern 
girl !” 

Anne turned, her eyes glowing the color of burn- 
ing brandy. 

“And why not?” she cried. “Why not? Mr. 
Henry is a burgess of Virginia!” 

“Aye, a burgess — from the woods! A lick-dish 
for the country votes!” 

“Molly!” Her husband’s tone was gathering re- 
monstrance. 

“He is a gentleman!” Anne flared, with wrath- 
dark eyes. “A courteous, honorable gentleman ! 
And he has more in his head than any four of them 
together.” 

“Highty-tighty !” exclaimed Mrs. Byrd. “More 
rebellion, you mean! I should think so.” 

Looking, Betsy felt a strange wonder. She did 


12 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


not always understand the other. “Why like yon 
Master Henry as you do, Anne?” she asked curi- 
ously. 

“Because,” cried Anne hotly, “he is a man — a 
man — not a gallant. He has something more to do 
than the wits of the Raleigh Tavern or the Jemmy 
Jessamys of the Assemblies. He knows no fine 
speeches! He spends no hours twirling a love-lock 
nor feather-biting over dolorous sonnets, nor petting 
his ruffles, nor dicing in the Apollo Room! Oh, I 
grow sick of the macaronis and their silken compli- 
ments and dress-swords, all as nice as nanny-hens! 
And the verses they write in the Gazette! ’Tis 
mawkish ! What do they do ? What do they know ? 
The breed of a bird. The latest fashion of pinch- 
beck shoe-buckles from Annapolis,” 

Mrs. Byrd sniffed. 

“A pity he married the tavern-keeper’s daugh- 
ter !” she said. “You might have had him and his 
buckskin breeches!” 

Betsy laughed at this. “Bless me !” she sighed. 
“What a blow that had been for Captain Jarrat!” 
Then, repenting, she ran after Anne as she swept 
grandly out and threw an arm around her neck. 

“Don’t be angry, dear,” she said. “An you are, 
I shall feel all to blame!” 

Paulina was still at the gate. “Haste!” she 


SLEEPING FIRES 


13 


called under her breath. “Here comes Mr. Jeffer- 
son.” 

“Lack!” said Betsy. “Speak of the dev — I mean 
■ — there is Mr. Henry with him.” 

“I marvel Mr. Jefferson likes him!” quoth Anne, 
a gentle sarcasm ruffling her anger. 

Mistress Byrd did not note the tone. “Aye,” she 
responded, “so do I. He has a tongue, though. 
Father says it has made more trouble for the Col- 
ony than all the exclusion acts put together. He 
looks a very uncouth creature!” she added. “See 
that moth-eaten hunting cap. And those horrid 
leather clothes!” This was in a low tone, for the 
approaching men were come within ear-shot and 
were even then doffing head-gear to them. 

The two were vastly dissimilar. One, the young- 
er, was clad in dark velvet, wore lace and a sword. 
His fine face was pale with the look of the scholar. 
The other, walking by his side, with saddle-bags 
over his arm thrust through the bridle of a lean 
roan nag, wore hunting dress with a small cap. 
He looked to be turned thirty-five. His face was 
keen and sallow, with Roman profile, and his eyes 
were deep-set under overhanging brows. For the 
rest, he moved his spare body awkwardly, slouchily, 
with a rawboned stoop of shoulders, as one at hap- 
pier ease in the woods than the street. Both bowed 


14 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


gravely as they came up, the face of the horseman 
searching the group and brightening suddenly with 
a flash of smile at sight of Anne. 

He passed on, but the younger turned back, noth- 
ing loath for a moment of chat. 

“Gossiping of the ball to-morrow, Fll swear I” he 
laughed. “Are the furbelows all chose ?” 

“Tell us, Mr. Jefferson,” cried Betsy Byrd. “Have 
you seen the new-come beauties? They say Lady 
Dunmore is lovelier than her daughters.” 

“I have been away for a fortnight,” he answered, 
“and can not say. I would I could say 'aye/ ” he 
added humorously ; “ ? twould relieve much anxiety !” 

“ ? Tis the dreadful uncertainness of you mascu- 
line lovers,” Anne countered archly, “that keeps us 
poor maids in terror.” 

“ 5 Tis said,” put in Paulina, “that his Excellency 
will publish a new code for the palace etiquette. 
Think of it ! Just like a real court ! There is to 
be a chamberlain, and all gentlemen are to unbonnet 
before the portraits of the king and queen!” 

The young man looked dark. “Would he kept 
to his court etiquette!” he exclaimed. “See you 
the green yonder?” 

All turned their gaze toward the lower end of 
the street where sat the new two-storied Capitol 
with its tall cupola and clock. Generally there 


SLEEPING FIRES 


15 


were to be seen burgesses, singly or in couples, pass- 
ing in or out. Now the space before it was cov- 
ered with knots of men, talking, gesticulating, walk- 
ing from group to group. One could almost imag- 
ine an accompanying hum, like the sound of a dis- 
tant bee swarm. As they gazed, the knots sepa- 
rated and moved slowly toward one of the side 
doors. 

“They enter the left,” said Anne. “ ’Tis not 
the usual sitting of the House, then. Has the 
governor summoned them to the Council cham- 
ber? And for what?” 

“For what?” repeated Jefferson wrathfully. “For 
the Resolves printed to-day in the Gazette appoint- 
ing a day of prayer and fasting because of the 
shutting of the port of Boston. His Excellency 
— I had like to have said ‘his Majesty’ — is in a fine 
rage. The Virginians are in no mood to bear more 
flouting. One can scarce say what will befall if he 
dissolve them!” 

There was well-nigh a wail at this. “Oh!” 
moaned Mistress Byrd. “Then there will be no 
ball!” 

Jefferson smiled, but a spot of tempestuous red 
burned Anne’s cheek as she flung up her head. “If 
the governor clapped all save ten of Virginia’s bur- 
gesses into the prison yonder,” she said slowly, “the 


16 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


ten would give his lady the ball of welcome. They 
are Virginians/’ 

“See!” said Jefferson. “He is coming” 

At the end of the broad reach which spitted Duka 
of Gloucester Street midway, nearly opposite them, 
stood the palace, brick-red, greened with creepers, 
lifting its tall lantern above gardens laid in the 
Italian fashion in shapes of stars and horse-shoes. 
Now its front sprang suddenly into action. A 
great chariot, very splendid, with vice-regal trap- 
pings of gilt and leather, whirled up at the steps, 
and two figures entered it. The vermilion-liveried 
outriders broke into gallop; and the team of six 
milk-white horses wound through the many-acred 
grounds sown with silver-grass and studded with 
mulberry and catalpa trunks like gnarled, one-legged 
dancers, and swept at a smart trot into Duke of 
Gloucester Street. 

His Excellency, Lord Dunmore, red and thick- 
necked, with Captain Foy, his cold-featured aide, 
beside him, rode to the Capitol. 

The splendid chariot, brought from London to 
awe the Virginians, went at speed along a way sud- 
denly grown a-bustle. The unwonted summons to 
the Council chamber had gone abroad, and Wil- 
liamsburg, full to the brim with rich planters from 
the valleys of the Potomac, the Rappahannock and 


SLEEPING FIRES 


11 


the James, now at their town houses with their 
families for court season, were come forth to wait 
and to speculate upon the royal governor’s wrath. 
The road was filling with coaches-and-fours bear- 
ing the nabobs and their dames, and with sparkish 
young gentlemen passing on dancing nags. The 
pave of old Bruton Church, wherein of a Sunday 
sat his Excellency in his pew under the canopy, 
was bright with maids in satin and lace, with beaux 
showing silken calves and powdered wigs, and with 
students in collegiate gabardines of a sobriety by no 
means ever fitting their habits. 

Stout old Gownor Botetourt had got many a 
cheer in the old days as he rode by in his fine 
chariot. He was popular, and departed this life 
in the odor of liking, to receive a statue on Wil- 
liam and Mary common. But for the new gov- 
ernor, John Murray, Earl of Dunmore, there had 
come to be many a wry look. He had learned Tory^ 
ism under Lord Bute, as had the king, and nature 
had made him a Scotch barbarian to begin with. 
Diplomacy to him meant the heavy hand, and char- 
ity was as far off as religion. 

He rode along this afternoon scowling, abrupt 
and imperious as usual, and now with an extra set 
to his heavy lantern-jaw that boded no good. 

Beaming adoration was in the low curtsy that 


18 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Mistress Byrd swept him as he was whirled past 
with unseeing eyes, and at the sight Anne’s mouth 
took on little lines of impatience. 

“I shall drive to the green/’ she said, springing 
into the seat. “The Capitol, Rashleigh,” she cried 
to the coachman, and waved good by to the group. 

“Anne grows a worse Whig every day!” pouted 
Mistress Byrd in a pet. “La, I think the governor 
is monstrous fine. I am going to wear my celestial 
blue satin to-morrow night and a white satin petti- 
coat !” 

Many a gallant bowed low from the pave as the 
beauty of Williamsburg went by. 

“ ’Slife !” protested young Brooke to Francis 
Byrd as he petted his lace ’neath the leaden bust 
of Sir Walter at the Raleigh’s entrance. “She 
would dazzle St. James. Even the Du Barry was 
a stick to her ! By the Lord, they should send her 
to London!” He prided himself upon his foreign 
travel. 

Byrd flushed angrily. It was not to his pleasure 
to hear her name coupled with such. Nor did it 
sit well upon the tongue of this dissipated fop. He 
choked the word that rose to his lips, however, and 
turned away, looking longingly after the girl that 
rode by. 

The chariot bearing Anne wheeled near the 


SLEEPING FIRES 


19 


debtors’ prison, abreast of the new Capitol whose 
wide wings spread ont like a great letter H. Scarce- 
ly had it pulled up when the west door opened 
harshly and poured forth again the lowering bur- 
gesses. 

They came out under the sparse trees, through 
which gleamed the sky steely-blue as sword-blades 
- — quietly and in orderly groups, but with brows 
knit, fingers clenched and smoldering anger in 
their faces. 

In the groups one might have seen many condi- 
tions. There was a sprinkling of homespun and 
buckskin, men from the shadow of the Blue Ridge, 
and from the great district of West Augusta 
stretching far to the Mississippi; and with these, 
rich planters from the tidewater and bay counties 
and the big rivers, clad in foreign fabrics, with 
ample wigs, swords and cocked hats, or the conical 
head-covering then coming to vogue in England. 
But save a few on whose faces sat a smirk of Tory 
smugness, all wore the same deadly look of anger 
and concern. 

Anne leaned forward and watched the crowd with 
tiny cores of fire in her eyes. Broken bits of con- 
versation were wafted to her. 

“I had looked to see better things of Dunmore, 
but ’tis all of a piece. We, burgesses of Virginia! 


go 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Wagged at, like so many school children, i’ faith, 
and sent home with a flea in the earl ’Tis un- 
bearable.” 

“‘Better things of Dunmore !’ A plague on 
him! Cry ‘God save the King* and give the devil 
the Colony!” 

Such sullen growlings betokening storm, and then 
smug ones, passing with snuff-taking and derisive 
shrugs of shoulders: 

“Henry is mad. You heard what he said at 
Colonel Samuel Overton’s the other day. ‘Inde- 
pendence!’ ‘Our Declaration!’ ‘Aid from Louis 
the Sixteenth!’ He is mad as a March hare! 
Treason forsooth? ’Tis matter for a leech! As 
if we had discipline, ships of war, or money. I 
tell you, he will embroil us all with such clatter. 
The governor would be perfectly justified in « . . ” 
So they passed on. 

A smile, quizzical, disapproving, but wondrous 
kind, wreathed the corners of the watcher’s mouth 
as a tall, splendid old man, with aquiline nose and 
sharp, gray eyes, came down the street, leaning on 
the arm of a negro body-servant. Three-score 
years and ten he had passed — one saw that by the 
lines in his face — and his frame was big and wide. 
He was gaunt, rawboned and sour-faced, and 
plainly though richly dressed, wearing a large jewel. 


SLEEPING FIRES 


21 


The girl’s eyes rested smilingly on the cocked- 
hat, the grizzled wig, the antique coat, with its 
square-cut lapels and shoulders rounded after a 
fashion of twenty years before, and then softly and 
lovingly on the rugged, masterful face, every whit 
patrician. 

All her life she had loved this man — the old 
baron of Greenway Court. He had carried her at 
her christening. As she saw him now, coming 
slowly but erect, bowing to salutations by the way, 
she thought again on what he must have looked in 
his youth, before the French war, when he had 
strayed from a London world of fashion, with a 
heart sore by reason of a jilting, they said, to bury 
himself in the shadows of the Blue Ridge. He 
had dreamed of building himself a great manor- 
house with ten thousand acres, calling it Green- 
way Court, and there living solitary. But a 
rough hunting-lodge on a spur of the mountain 
near Winchester was all that ever came of it. 

The girl watched him as he approached, stopping 
now and again for a word. Each pause made him 
look more hot and angry, and seeing, she shook her 
head as if she chid some naughty child. 

As he neared her, speaking with one of the more 
richly dressed burgesses, his bottled wrath burst 


22 


HEAETS COUEAGEODS 


out in a flood. He raised his thorn stick and 
shook it at the building, choking with rage. 

“Meet at the Ealeigh, gadzooks!” he shouted. 
“Whose pelting is this? Patrick Henry’s, aigh? 
I thought as much! A deer-stalker!” he cried ? 
tattooing with his cane. “A good-for-naught bar- 
tender! Why, he used to bring me my ale when 
I passed Hanover Court House. A coarse, dancing, 
fiddling, wench-chucking vagabone, I tell you ! His 
father, the justice, is a good, sober country gen- 
tleman, but little the son takes after him. Come- 
day-go-day-God-send-Sunday I He must marry the 
tavern-keeper’s daughter !” 

“My Lord!” Anne’s voice rose sweet and clear. 

“And now because he mouths treason as bold as 
brass, and because he wins a dirty damage case 
against some tuppenny parsons, he sits in the Bur- 
gesses and rides with gentlemen!” 

“Lord Fairfax!” She was standing upright in 
the coach. 

“Virginia is in a pretty case, to take up any 
leather-breeched Tom, Dick or Harry, wagging his 
jaw ...” 

“Lord Fairfax!” 

“About the king’s business !” 

“7 wait for you to ride with me” 

The old man half-turned, choked, shook his cane 


SLEEPING FIRES 


23 


again in the air; then, seeing the girl, made her 
as slow and courtly a how as if he were in an As- 
sembly. Then he climbed into the chariot and 
sat down. 

“Go and wait at the tavern, Joe,” Anne said to 
his servant 

The baron took Anne’s slender, cool hand in his 
huge, bony, trembling one, and they rode silently. 

As he had stormed — this big, irascible, loyal- 
hearted subject of a bad king — she had seemed to 
see in contrast Henry’s sharp, sallow, good-hu- 
mored, sun-burned face, those gray-black, cavern- 
ous eyes with the fire behind them. And at that 
moment a touch of prophecy came to her. This 
old man represented the masterfulness of birth, 
the pride of power, the dogged faith that is splen- 
did but will not reason. In Henry was the new 
spirit of the new land, eager, thoughtful, patient, 
indomitable — waiting, but open-eyed. And if she 
had no answer for this stanch old man, it was not 
because she knew none. 

After a while the fury had burned itself out in 
that worn frame. “’Tis naught I care for the 
rest of them, my dear,” he said, “but my boy Wash- 
ington is in with their damned treasons, and the 
Whigs will ruin him!” 



CHAPTER XI 


A FOREST DEMOSTHENES 

On the south bank of the Pamunkey River near 
Studley one summer afternoon, two men sprawled 
in the slashes by a leaf -mottled pool sucked in from 
the river. Fresh-cut fishing poles lay at their feet, 
and in a near basket, on a bed of green leaves, 
glinted and flopped a dozen lean carp and spotted 
trout. 

One of the fishermen, Francis Byrd, lay with his 
youthful face upturned, watching the woolly clouds 
like sheep dusty and driven, huddling in the blue. 
His companion was older. He was clad in a coarse 
cloth coat stained with the chase, greasy buckskin 
breeches and leggings for boots. He had a lean 
sallow face with high cheek bones, set off by a white 
linen cap, under the edges of which stuck a fringe 
of sand-colored hair, and he was sunk in that pro- 
found contemplation affected by a green lizard in the 
sun. 

Finally the sallow-faced man gave a mighty yawn 
24 


A FOREST DEMOSTHENES 


25 


and sat up with dead leaf-wisps clinging to his 
coat. 

“On such a day as this,” he vowed, “*twere a 
sin against the Almighty not to go a-fishing !” 

The other sent a twig skirling into the drooped 
tangles of grape-vine, where wood-birds fluttered 
with quick, noisy strokes. He had this day been 
relearning old woodlore: how in bush-angling the 
sun must strike the face lest the shadow fright the 
fish ; how the carp would rise best to a swanVhead ; 
how the trout was keenest under the smother of 
a smart, foamy fall. For in these things, as in 
others clacked less loudly at the Raleigh Tavern 
in Williamsburg, his companion of this day was 
deeply versed. 

Virginians, old and young, were for the most 
part loyal in liking to the new soil — this, although 
they turned fond eyes to the old family manors. 
The planters still sent their sons to Eton and Ox- 
ford to be educated, and spoke of England as 
“home” ; but these sons, meanwhile, fruit of the 
new soil, followed the yelping, blooded packs of 
England boasting valiantly of their own bow-legged 
dew-lapped mongrel of beagle and fox-hound. They 
threshed sunny, fenced coverts longing for a thigh- 
deep Potomac marsh with a bleak wind whipping 
the sedge. They rode of a smart day on Rotten 


26 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Row, wishing it were Bruton pave in Williamsburg. 
And they wrote Greek verses with dainty colonial 
gloves tucked beneath their brocaded waistcoats, 
dreaming of York-town wharf again. 

Byrd was no exception to the rule. Now, lying 
in the sunlight, he sighed from sheer delight. 

“Mr. Henry,” he cried, pulling a long breath, “I 
never was so glad of anything in all my life as to 
be home again !” 

Henry smiled^ “Are you longing for an Indian 
fight?” 

The young man’s face clouded suddenly. “I don’t 
mean the commission,” he said. “’Twas mother’s 
doing; she asked it of the governor. I wish she 
hadn’t. I intend to resign it after this one cam- 
paign,” he went on. “Then I thought I would study 
law. I don’t want to he a ne’er-do-well.” 

His companion pulled his chin. 

“The law is a long wrestle,” he said, chewing a 
grass-blade. “An I were you, I would keep the 
commission. ’Tis easy enough to resign it. If Vir- 
ginia needs you, she will be glad of such a training. 
You are young yet. I didn’t study law till I was 
twenty-four. A ne’er-do-well ! Why, lad, I had that 
name flung at me for ten years, and there are a 
plenty who will have it so still. Sooner or later 


M FOREST DEMOSTHENES 


n 


we find ourselves, and then ’tis plain sailing. What 
think you of me for a farmer ?” 

The look on the other’s face made him laugh 
again mellowly. 

“Oh, and I was one,” he declared. “I raised my 
oats and drove in the cows with the rest of them. 
*Tis curious how we are made in this world. Square 
pegs and round holes everywhere when a plenty of 
us, by the body of God! might be king’s ministers. 
Here am I, for instance. Think you I was cut out 
for the law-courts? You should ask my father-in- 
law at the tavern.” 

“Tell me?” Byrd’s face held an eager, smiling 
interest. 

“When I was fifteen,” went on Henry, “I had 
no more bent to the statutes than a cat for lace- 
making. Only give me a gun, and I was as happy 
as a pig in muck. My father leaned toward trade 
for me — mayhap because he himself was a scholar. 
For he liked naught better than to argue the doctrine 
of eternal punishment with Colonel Bland on the 
Greek text, and he could draw a map better than 
a weir.” 

have seen his plate of Virginia,” the other 
broke in. “’Tis in the library at Westover. Lord 
Fairfax said once ’twas the best in the Colonies,” 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“I’ll warrant he said no good of me though 
smiled Henry. “Well, my father — for there were 
nine of us, no modest number i’ faith — set my brother 
William and me up in stock. William took to it 
like a duck to dough, but the ledgers might go hang 
for all of me. I could no more collect an account 
than beg for a parish. I went hunting while the 
fat burned, and made friends and debts faster than 
a living. You may believe a twelve-month put an 
end to that. 

“Then ’twas farming for a season or two, a forced 
sale and a store again. I was two years at this, 
and at the end my cash sales footed up a matter of 
thirty-nine pounds and six shillings — about enough 
to buy a gig. And here I was, twenty-three years 
old, penniless and with a big family, and good for 
naught in the world but to fling a fish-cord or scrape 
a fiddle-bow.” 

“And they called you ‘ne’er-do-well’ 1” said Byrd, 
under his breath. 

“There was luck in it,” Henry continued. “Fate 
said I shouldn’t farm. Fate said I shouldn’t trade. 
Here is where a friend comes in. Captain Dan- 
dridge, who married Governor Spottswood’s daugh- 
ter, was a true friend of mine if ever man had one. 

“‘Up anchor and clear the shoals, Patrick/ says 


A FOREST DEMOSTHENES 


29 


he to me, ‘and steer for the general court/ and 
straightway packed me off with a ‘Coke upon Lit- 
tleton’ and a ‘Digest of the Virginia Acts/ 

“I thought it over a while. As for study, Fd 
as lief slept with a wet dog! But marry, there 
was naught else in sight, so I pulled a long face 
and laid my nose for the law-books. 

“They were as dry as the prophet’s bones, God 
knows, and I snored over them for a full six weeks. 
Then, thinking I knew all the law in the Colonies, 
I rode to Williamsburg for a license.” 

Byrd laughed outright. “Six weeks !” he cried. 

Henry relaxed in a pickle-dry smile. “’Twere 
as well as six years to me,” he said. “The Lord 
made me no damned scholar. I wager the examiners 
knew not what to make of me, for I probably had 
less law in my crop than any one they had ever 
seen. There was Mr. Robert Nicholas and Mr. 
Wythe, and the two Randolphs, John and Peyton. 
I knew no one of them from Adam. 

“‘Faith/ says Mr. Wythe, the first I went to, ‘I 
like your assurance, but sign I will not. Not though 
you ask me till doomsday!’ Mr. Nicholas was as 
bad. 

“Then it was Mr. John Randolph. He sniffed 
elegantly at my country clothes, and bombarded me 


30 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


with the common law. Before long he had me in. 
an argument overstrong for a hot day. My pleas 
were not in any of the books either. 

! “At last he stopped me and dragged me off to 
his office. ‘Young man/ says he, pointing to an 
army of calf -bindings, ‘look there !’ 

“ ‘I see/ says I. I thought it was all up with me. 
‘The devil only knows what’s in them !’ 

“ ‘What you do not know, is in these hooks, young 
man/ says he. I had my hat on by this time. 

‘“But what you do know/ he added, pulling me 
back, ‘is in your natural reason. By this, I bespeak 
your genius. Let your industry ornament it/ And 
thereupon, without more ado, he signed his name. 

“I was glad, for I knew a sight of it would be 
enough for Mr. Peyton. Then back I posted to 
Mr. Nicholas’s. 

‘“What! Back again?’ says he. ‘You know too 
little law, sir/ 

“ ‘I’ve swallowed a whole library since I saw you/ 
said I. 

“He hemmed and took snuff, but I stuck to him 
like a leech, and at last, after he had made me prom- 
ise to study like a book-worm, he signed to be well rid 
of me. 

“And that/’ Henry ended, “is how I became a 


A FOKEST DEMOSTHENES 


31 


lawyer. *Tis a tale,” lie added lugubriously, "that’ 
never fails to make me dry. Saints* breeches ! 
The sun is getting low. We would best start back 
to Hanover Court House if we would have Mr. 
Shelton give us these fish for supper.** 

He wound up the poles and laid them in the 
crotch of a tree, remarking that they would be 
handy for the next comer, then threw himself down 
with head over the bank and sucked up a draft 
through his teeth. 

“Best drink in all the world, Frank,** he averred, 
looking up with chin dripping. “None of your 
neguses or your whip-sillibubs for me ! Though Fve 
no objections to Mr. Shelton’s madeira or honest ale. 
But the precious cordials your fine gentleman brings 
from the Indies to smack lips over at a guinea a 
bottle, may stay corked till doomsday for all my 
tasting !** 

Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he picked up 
the basket and led the way with a long stride to 
a near bridle-path, overgrown now and showing old 
log-butts where a way had been axed for a chariot 
through wind-fallen timber. Along this they plod- 
ded a quarter-mile to where on a cross-roads sat, 
squat and sober, a tavern with a well beside it. At 
a halloo the host came out. 


32 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


a 


“What luck, Patrick ?” he called. “Come in, 
come in! I hope,” to Byrd, “that you enjoyed the 
day, sir.” 

“Mr. Shelton,” said Henry, “your unworthy son- 
in-law has hooked seven trout. I take oath that I 
am hungry enough at this minute to eat their heads 
and tails.” 

When Byrd, fresh from a sousing of spring-water, 
came into the clean-sanded, stucco-paneled room, 
he perceived his friend of the buckskins slouched 
far down in a chair by the window. His shamble 
legs were thrust forward and his chin was on his 
chest. A dog-eared book was on his knee. 

In the midst of a chuckle he turned his head; 

“Good!” he said, “I swear I think supper is due 
by now.” 

He came ambling over, sending the book tum- 
bling; then, recovering it, he held it up with a laugh. 
“The ‘Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy/ an 
old friend I keep to console me when I quarrel 
with the black-letter. Sit down, Frank.” 

The early supper came smoking — a platter of 
trout wrapped in green leaves, with another of 
canvas-back and hominy, tankards of brown ale and 
a drawing of old madeira from the wood. ' ) 

Henry’s talk, as the meal went on, was flavored 
with his vivid and vagabond personality — a pike he 


A FOREST DEMOSTHENES 


33 


had hooked with Mr. John Campbell, or a buck he 
had started along the Chickahominy. Or it would 
be some anecdote of the neighborhood, at which times 
he would drop into the broad, provincial tongue, 
rustic and sonorous, like a back-woodsman. Each of 
these stories had a shrewd moral, a homely turn, a 
quaint conceit, a raveled metaphor — with a laugh 
or a sting curled up in the tail of it. 

Mrs. Shelton came and stood by admiringly, her 
round hand resting on the arm of the chair. 

“Patrick’s trade,” she said. “Sooth, he could 
talk the hind leg off a bullock. But you should 
hear him musicking! I’ve been at him to take 
lessons on the fiddle. There’s an actor named 
Alberti in Williamsburg who gives Tom Jefferson 
lessons at Monticello. But Patrick — he has no idea 
of his talent! Lord, how he used to saw at the 
frolics ! • • • He learned to play the flute 
too, when he was only twelve years old. Think of 
that, now ! ’Twas whilst he was knitting a snapped 
collar-bone.” 

After the cloth was removed, Mr. Shelton passed 
long clay pipes; and they drew chairs to the porch 
where the trill of tree-frogs sounded near and the 
big-winged beetles and cockchafers went thudding 
through the trellised trumpet-vines. 

“You must have seen a monstrous lot in England, 


34 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Frank/’ said Henry, presently, as conversation dal* 
lied. “Did you see Charles Fox ?” 

“By Gad, yes,” cried Byrd. “I meant to tell you. 
It was at Brooks’s club, where I went with Mr. 
Cary. What think you was the first word Mr. Fox 
said to me when he heard I was from Virginia ?” 

Henry shook his head. 

“On my life, ’twas of you ! To think I had near 
forgot it. ‘There’s one sharp drake over there, Mr. 
Byrd,’ says he, ‘that I’d give more than a crown 
to know. ’Tis the same, by the mark, that plead 
against the parsons !’ ” 

“The-de vil-and-Tom- Walker ! I shall never es- 
cape it,” Henry sighed lugubriously, tapping the 
ashes from his pipe. “’Tis always ‘the parsons/ 
‘the parsons/ as if I was a gospel-hater. One would 
think I had murdered the curate !” 

“’Twas his first big case,” said Mr. Shelton. “I 
warrant it showed some of the old fogies that a 
young Cato had pecked shell here amongst them. 
His own father was on the bench, Mr. Byrd. Tell 
the story, Patrick ; ’tis a good one, and grows better 
with age like my madeira.” 

So Henry began : 

“There are parsons and parsons,” he said, in cross- 
legged ease, “and some of them are friends of mine. 
There was good old Robert Rose, of Richmond, for 


'A FOREST DEMOSTHENES 


35 


instance. He gave them heaven one Sunday and 
hell the next. A dear old man !** 

“Aye/* assented Mr. Shelton. “He married me.” 

“And there was Parson Davies who became pres- 
ident of the College at Prince-town. He used to 
walk like the ambassador of some great king! He 
gave me my training, by the way. *Slife! But for 
the old Calvinist, there had been no parsons* cause 
to tell about. 

“I was a youngster when he preached at the 
Fork Church and my mother, — she was a good Pres- 
byterian — used to carry me to service every Sunday. 
I hated it like toad-pie. And coming home to Mount 
Brilliant in the big double gig, it was ‘Now, Patrick, 
what was the text?* and ‘What was the argument, 
Patrick?* till i* faith, I grew so used to preach in 
his wake that I could go from firstly to amen and 
never lose the scent. And he could preach on any- 
thing from the birth of Christ to the death of the 
devil ! *Twas good practice, if it made no minister 
of me. 

“But *tis small love I have for the parsons as a 
general run,** he went on, tilting his pipe between 
a thumb and finger — “though my uncle is one sure 
enough; a fox-hunting, sermon-borrowing lot, too 
many of them, fond of the tavern-porch and a bowl 
of toddy and mightily concerned in matters touch- 


36 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


ing the pocket. Famine or plenty, they want their 
ease, and they would go to a point beyond the fiend 
to get it. They get good glebe and give the people 
worn gospel. Steal a pig and give the good man 
the trotters ! 

“Tobacco* as you know,” he said, turning to 
Byrd, “was our money here — thanks to the king — 
and the king it was who fixed the parsons’ salaries. 
Sixteen thousand pounds of good leaf, said the law, 
the precious parson was to get. Fair enough, when 
the law also fixes the price of the tobacco. Aye, 
it was just there was the rub ! 

“A field of tobacco is more pother than a queen’s 
bank of orchids under glass. There is the seed-bed 
and the fly, the curing, firing, bulking, sweating, 
and the planter must know it as he knows his letters. 
There are sky-signs and the worm, harder to show 
than the weevil in wheat; it must not blossom, nor 
blow over, nor be hilled too high, nor be cut too late 
or too soon. Seventeen months from seed to sam- 
pling. And misfortune anywhere means loss; par- 
ticularly here in Virginia, where the purity of the 
leaf is as fiercely defended as the chastity of a 
woman. 

“Well, big freshets came one year, and the crops 
failed. Tobacco went up beyond the legal price. 
What’s to do now ? Why, pay the parsons in money. 


A FOREST DEMOSTHENES 


37 


to be sure. So said the Burgesses. Every one else 
would suffer; the parson would get full wages. But 
no! He is after his margins, and whines for his 
weed. ‘Murder!’ he yells, and sends a petition to 
England.” 

“’Twas John Camm they sent,” nodded Mr. 
Shelton. 

“Aye, president of William and Mary now. He 
oiled his tongue all the way over. 

“‘Go home easy/ says George — this sweet king 
of ours — ‘if the Burgesses made any such law, it’s 
nil. I make the laws for Virginia!’ Back comes 
John Camm then, and takes it to court, and the 
court agreed with the king. 

“The parish collectors who hadn’t given the par- 
sons their tobacco, began to shake for their bonds. 
And while they were bemoaning, to the jury rode 
the parsons for their damages. ’Twas a hopeless 
case, and my big-wigs knew so much law that they 
backed and filled at sight of it. So finally the col- 
lectors came to me and I took the case. 

“The ministers rode to court poking each other’s 
ribs. My own father was on the bench, as Mr. 
Shelton said. Lord, Lord, but I was in a blue sweat 
that day.” 

Henry chuckled long as he refilled his pipe-bowl. 

“My uncle Patrick, rector of St. PauBs parish. 


38 


HEAETS COURAGEOUS 


drove up in his chariot, Tncle/ said I, Tm sorry 
to see you/ 

“ ‘Why ?’ asked the old man. 

“‘Because/ said I, ‘if I clap eye on you when I 
make my speech, I shall have no heart to say aught 
against the clergy V 

“‘Rather than that, Patrick/ said he, Til not 
only stay outside, but egad, Fll go home again !’ 
and off he went. 

“To clip a long story, the jury gave my parsons 
a penny damages. They do say, when the old gen- 
tleman heard I had won, he was like to swoon away. 
That was six years ago,” he ended, “and they won’t 
let me outgrow it. Heigh ho! ’Tis ten by the 
clock. We must be off at sun-up for Wednesday’s 
hunt at Gladden Hall. Let us pack ourselves to 
bed.” 


The morning of the meet saw Gladden Hall, the 
Tillotson seat, twanging with preparations for the 
run. Byrd and Henry had arrived late the evening 
before, to find the house full and robes laid down- 
stairs for the accommodation of late guests. 

Waiting breakfast, Anne stood in one of the can- 
dle-lighted rooms, listening to the shouts of the 
stable boys, wondering what late arrivals she should 


A FOREST DEMOSTHENES 


39 


find below stairs, and absently listening to Betsy 
Byrd descanting npon the horses as she looked ont 
through the green blinds. 

“Do hush chattering, Elizabeth,” snapped her 
mother. 

Mrs. Byrd was not in the best of humors, owing 
possibly to a spark that had flown the evening before 
at supper. Her political horizon was limited and 
she had characteristically said the wrong thing. 

Conversation turning upon Doctor Franklin’s elec- 
trical studies, there was a laugh at the Boston par- 
sons who were preaching against the doctor’s light- 
ning-rods on the ground that they opposed the ex- 
ercise of Divine Providence. It was at this point 
that Mrs. Byrd reached distinction: 

“Think you. Colonel,” she asked the host, “that 
we Virginians will ever be able to teach loyalty to 
the Boston puritans ?” 

This was worse than thin ice, for the beating of 
Mr. Otis by the king’s brawling customs officer had 
never been forgiven by Virginians, monarchists as 
they were thought to be. Every one there knew well 
enough what Colonel Tillotson thought of it. 

The good lady at the table’s-end glanced appre- 
hensively at him, but he smiled with perfect self- 
possession over his glass. 


40 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“Madam/* he said dryly, “we Virginians are busy 
teaching ourselves self-control. We can leave the 
Bostonians to Mr. Adams l” 

Mrs. Byrd bit her lip and doubled back to fox- 
hunting, but the incident had not gone to better 
her temper for this morning. 

“Come away from that blind, Elizabeth/* said 
Mrs. Byrd. “Would you have the gentlemen see 
you looking like that? Anne, I have some news 
for you. Captain Jarrat is on his way back from 
England.** 

Anne*s eyes darkened. “Is he ?** 

Mrs. Byrd was not annoyed at this. 

“I don’t see why you should turn up your nose/* 
she bridled. “He holds a commission in the king’s 
service, and he certainly stands high in Lord Dun- 
more’s estimation. Most girls would be glad to get 
anything so genteel.” 

“He holds a commission, yes,” Anne retorted. 
“What kind of commission is it that has kept him 
gaming and riding at Williamsburg a year at a 
time? I never heard of his doing anything in the 
king’s service before this trip abroad. I despise 
him,” she went on. “I always did. Betsy can have 
him.” 

“Elizabeth might do worse,” said that young lady’s 


A FOREST DEMOSTHENES 


41 


mother. And she meant it. “Anne,” she asked, 
“who is to ride ?” 

Anne enumerated. 

“You forgot the most important, Anne,” Betsy- 
said mischievously, making a little face behind her 
mother’s back. “I wonder if Mr. Henry will have 
on his buckskins.” 

“I hope so. They are vastly becoming.” Anne’s 
serenity was studied. “You must let me crape your 
hair, dear; it is all tousled.” 

Mrs. Byrd had turned her head with a gasp. 
“Gracious heaven!” she ejaculated. “You haven’t 
invited him, Anne I” 

Betsy laughed. 

<r Why not?” asked Anne innocently. “He is a 
friend of Colonel Washington’s and he was to be here. 
Besides, Frank likes him.” This was a blow in re- 
turn. 

Mrs. Byrd was speechless for a moment. “I sup- 
pose I might have expected it,” she said then, ma- 
jestically. “Times are getting beyond me. I don’t 
see what girls of your age want of ideas. In my 
day they were never expected to have them. Breed- 
ing seems to count for naught nowadays, not to 
speak of loyalty. That slouch !” she went on, hold- 
ing up her hands. “I thought he was a demagogue 


42 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


before he called that meeting in the Raleigh Tavern 
and sent out his silly call for a Continental Con- 
gress. Continental Congress! Continental fiddle- 
sticks !” 

“Colonel Washington was at the meeting.” 

“I don’t care if he was!” responded the lady in 
great heat. “I can stomach your gentlemen rebels. 
Colonel Washington is a gentleman — though I have 
my doubts about his being such a tough Whig; ’tis 
not in the breed. But your half-baked, bumpkin 
patriot is too much! ’Tis a fine thing for loyal 
ladies in the king’s own Colony of Virginia to have 
to smuggle their tea from Holland and sip it in 
their closets ! Before the year is out Anne, I make 
no doubt you will be singing the fol-de-lol of that 
nincompoop Philip Freneau at the college, or call- 
ing yourself a ‘Daughter of Patriots’ and drinking 
some vile herb imitation that you dub ‘liberty 
tea/ Faugh!” 

“Anne,” called Mrs. Tillotson at the door, “what 
is the matter ?” 

“Nothing, aunt Mildred,” said Anne. 

“She has asked Patrick Henry to the hunt to-day,” 
said Mrs. Byrd. 

Mrs. Tillotson’s kindly eyes half smiled as she 
shook her head. “The colonel asked him,” she cor- 
rected. 


A FOREST DEMOSTHENES 


43 


Mrs. Byrd’s mouth was rounded to an inaudible 
“oh” and she sat down helplessly. 

“’Tis time to breakfast now, girls,” said Mrs. 
Tillotson. “Haste and don’t be late.” 

“Mother’s afraid of your uncle John,” said Betsy 
as they went down the hall. “So he likes Master 
Henry, too! Anne,” she sighed a little wistfully, 
“I wish I believed things and could fight for people 
the way you do. Now if you were in love with him, 
’twould be different. I could understand you then. 
But ’tis just what he believes and that you believe 
the same thing! ’Tis a matter of principle. I 
know Master Henry is against the king. But I 
can’t see why he is any less a common tavern bar- 
tender. You like him, your uncle likes him, brother 
Frank likes him. You all think he is a great man. 
’Tis all terrifical puzzling to me,” 



CHAPTER III 


HORSE AND AWAY 

Is there a sight in the world to compare with the 
start on a hunting morning? When the colors are 
flying, the hounds yelping, horses pawing to he off 
— the very cudgeled turf springy with life and mo- 
tion. This is a sight to put fire into the veins of 
an old man ! 

It was a sweet, clean morning, for rain had washed 
it over-night and drops hung on the gossamered 
porch-vines. There was a warm fillip in the air, 
and over all, pale clouds, a watery moon, a redden- 
ing east. 

The drive was studded with riders and a-push 
with stirrup-hoys. More than one guest was there 
whom such sport was training for riding on sterner 
fields — Will Cabell, afterward lieutenant-colonel 
under Washington, young George Mason of Gunston 
Hall, he who became a captain in the Virginian 
line, swarthy and athletic like his father, and Mr. 
John Payne of Goochland, whose daughter Dorothy 
44 > 


HOKSE AND AWAY 


45 


later married Mr. James Madison. The last was 
even then dressed soberly, having already im- 
bibed the Quaker ideas which, when he had un- 
buckled his sword of the Continental army, led him 
to free his blacks and move to Philadelphia. 

Colonel Tillotson in hunting toggery of gray 
homespun of a fine and elegant weave, with berib- 
boned queue and high boots with tassels, stood tall 
and straight on the gravel, in a leaping, wrangling 
welter of hounds. 

“Down, Pilgrim ! Down, Trumpet !” he sput- 
tered, wading. “Zounds, I am no fox !” 

Mrs. Byrd was resplendent in dove-color. She 
dangled a black riding-mask with a metal mouth- 
piece, and tapped her pommel impatiently with a 
silver-tipped switch-whip, having less eye, it must 
be confessed, for Colonel Byrd, whose gouty foot 
was bandaged to the knee, than for some others. 
Colonel Washington, forty, grave and settled of 
countenance, was on his favorite Ajax, wearing a 
riding-frock of drab broad-cloth with gilt buttons, 
and walked up and down beside Colonel Overton’s 
roan. 

“Colonel Washington may be a good fighter,” 
Betsy confided to her mother, “but he isn’t near so 
handsome as father. I don’t wonder Elizabeth 
Faunt Le Koy wouldn’t have him.” 


46 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Among these Anne rode out, glowing in a scarlet 
habit and wound in the ribbon of a silver hunting- 
horn. Her mount, Mohammed, was lead-white, mon- 
strous deep of chest, nostrils of silk flame, with fore- 
head full and windpipe flaring trumpet-like at the 
throttle ; yet with the fine flat-bone and clean line of 
limb set in the hoofs of a racer. 

John-the-Baptist had held her stirrup, grinning 
widely with great pride. 

“Jes tech him wid de spur. Mis’ Anne,” he had 
said, “en he gwine ter go lak er flyin’ squr’ll.” Now, 
under curb, the powerful beast fretted and wantoned 
with his bit as if the hunting thrill had flicked his 
blood afire. 

“Anne,” said Betsy sepulchrally, as she joined 
her. “It has happened,, He has on his buckskins. 
There he comes now.” 

Henry came slowly from the stables. The horse 
he bestrode was as unlike any of the others as he 
himself was unlike the riders. It had his own 
sallow hue that was enhanced by his clothes, some- 
thing of his wiriness and angularity. It looked 
over-small for the rider’s weight, was lean and 
long and ragged, with tan muzzle and flanks, and 
soft, dark, watchful eyes. Some of the gentlemen 
regarded him curiously, but Henry knew a horse 


HORSE AND AWAY 


41 


as he knew a gun. He doffed his hunting cap tc 
Anne, then stopped to shake hands with Colonel 
Overton. 

Mrs. Byrd pursed her mouth as she saw him 
stop. 

“What a homely brute he is on!” she exclaimed, 
“and he rides like a groom. Anne, are we wait- 
ing for any Indians to join us before we start?” 

The house servants clustered in the background, 
waving windmill arms, to watch the going. Mammy 
Evaline, the oracle, in the center. 

“Jes* look at Cun’l Wash’n’ton,” she said. “He 
so tall, an’ straight, an* den he set er hoss an* ride 
wid sich a air!” 

“Mars* Henry he gwinter beat *em all, dough,” 
vouchsafed John-the-Baptist. “Dat whut Mis* 
Anne say.” 

His mother turned on him scornfully. “Umph! 
Yo* talk fool talk, nigger! Dat limpty-go-fetchum 
no biz’ness dar ’tall! Our folks wuz bawn qual’ty, 
an’ dey ain* nuwer got ober it. I nuvver ’lowed 
Marsa’d coun’nance sich mixturation ! 

“Jes* look at Mis’ Anne now!” she continued 
rapturously. “She lak er queen on er throme! 
Don’ seem no time ’tall sence she useter squeeze 
meh bref plumb erway ter git erloose ter play angel 


48 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


befo’ de look’n-glass. Ez ef Gordamighty hadn* 
made her one widont her Tendin’ lak ! Talk erbout 
de stars — she ’way erbove dem!” 

Just then came the blast of Colonel Tillotson’s 
horn; and the field was off, tossing hands to the 
group left on the broad porch, hounds and whip- 
pers-in ahead, clattering through the wide-swung 
western gate, perched thick with little negroes from 
the quarter like brown toads after a rain, and so 
to the high road and the open fields. 

There was a mild wind, and the hills slept in 
their soft, blue Virginia haze. Across the rose- 
gray warp of dawn went frayed scarfs of cloud, 
and through it the winding horns wreathed a 
thread of gold. 

The first mile drew Henry and Anne together. 

“How splendid — this is!” she gasped. “I — want 
you to — beat the field.” 

“Why?” 

She looked to the left, where rode Mrs. Byrd, 
and he saw the glance. His good-humored face 
wrinkled in a leathery smile. “Nabob isn’t pretty,” 
he said, “but by the feather-legged Moses! he can 
distance any horse here to-day save yours.” 

“Well, then . . ” she answered, and shook out 
her reins. 


HORSE AND AWAY 


49 


The hunt took a southeasterly direction, and the 
dogs ahead, bungling at the knolls, were running 
in leaping circles through the field. A whimper- 
ing challenge came sharply from the left — only a 
puppy out for a first run. Then a bell-note blot- 
ted it out and the rest followed it with a shrilling 
jangle. The scent was found. 

The field came upon it in a wide, straggling 
crescent, with the pack full cry in the center, 
Sweetlips the leader, Anne’s favorite hound, run- 
ning low down, spending mouth. The flung-up 
chorus was echoed as if another chase were in the 
sky. Henry hugged the left, and Anne, sitting light 
and swaying, sped out beside him. The pounding 
music lifted in her blood till she could have shouted. 
Three — Anne, Henry and young Byrd — were ahead 
now, and the sharp air reeled back past them, heavy- 
freighted with wild dog-music. Her stone-gray 
hunter was doing his best. Henry noted his flat, 
clean legs, the markings on his hoofs and his rider’s 
cheek, exultant in the pace. 

As they rode, the rose-stained east turned king- 
fisher color and then amber, and the sun splashed 
the clouds with pools of burnt yellow and gold till 
they went in a glory. It grew, in a burst, to day, 
grass-sweet and sullen, sodden with the wet smell 


50 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


of sycamore. For a few moments Anne was drunk 
with the motion — the rush through tingling, dew- 
wet air. 

The mood passed and she drew the first deep breath 
of calculation. The fox had doubled. The hounds 
ran no more with scent breast-high. They were 
come to a fault and cold hunting, laid nose to find 
the tainted herbage and writhed in ridge and hol- 
low, while Sweetlips whimpered for the lost trail 
and ran panting, with lolling tongue, dazed out of 
weariness by the check. 

It was “Yoicks! Yoicks!” or “Push him up!” 
as all the hunt, each yelling to hi? favorite hound, 
came up fretful to the babble of yelps. 

Then, in an instant, a hound to the left gave 
cry again. Anne reined sharply, and there, far 
away, skirting a tangle of brush, melting into 
ground, a brown streak, scudding. 

She saw Colonel Washington, his keen, pitted 
face alive, rai§e his hand and give the view-halloo 
— the same shout he was to give in a later dawn, 
when, scenting Cornwallis’s stores at Brunswick, 
he stood up in his stirrups to see the sharp work 
on the Prince-town road. Mayhap a memory of 
this hunting day came flushing to him then, for 
he cried, smiling to his officers, “An old-fashioned 
Virginia fox-hunt, gentlemen!” 


HORSE AND AWAY 


51 


On this run, wind told. The wary fox doubled 
again, and the swishing brush was all about her, 
but to the right Anne could see a flicker of yellow, 
and knew that Henry led near-by. 

As they broke into the open again, his brown 
was plunging scarce ten feet away. The foremost 
hounds were wriggling over a slippery tree-trunk, 
fallen across Queen’s Creek — a narrow, yellow 
stream running overfull — and they two, on the in- 
stant, rode for the clay bank. It was a fair leap, 
but with scant five feet width of approach. Henry 
had just time to pull his horse down on his haunches 
before the brink to give her room, and she took 
it, Mohammed rising like a bird, from the spur. 

Then, too late for the leap, he turned to the left, 
gave the rowel and flew along parallel with the 
stream. He heard an oath behind him as a wor- 
ried hunter refused the jump, and then the sopping 
splash as horse and man and shelving bank-edge 
went plunging down into the saffron whirl. At a 
shaly dip a hundred yards above he dashed through, 
and, wet to his shoulders, rode up a slope across 
which Anne’s scarlet habit flaunted alone after the 
dwindled pack. He put his horse to all its worth 
and spurted in a-stretch with her. 

Just ahead of the foremost hounds the sweated, 
hunted thing ran like a crafty shadow. A final 


52 


HEABTS COURAGEOUS 


agonized speeding, a dart aside, a desperate double 
— then the hot breath overran it, the eager jaws 
closed over it. 

Henry flung off his horse, snatched away the 
still quivering body and held it up from the yelling 
pack, while Anne, breathless, disheveled, blew a 
blast on her silver horn. 

They two alone were in at the death. The 
quarry had ‘flived” a full hour before the hounds, 
and the run had been eight miles. 

It were worthy a painter’s brush to picture that 
night. The damask cloth stretching from corner 
to corner of the great dining-room, bright with old 
glass and candelabra — the myrtle-berry candles 
glinting from a floor white from scouring with dry 
pine-needles — the guests — the visiting gentlemen 
still in hunting dress — about the supper-table ; Colo- 
nel Tillotson in ruffled shirt, flowered tail-coat and 
satin waistcoat, his chin in a white stock, his wig well 
powdered, the very pattern of hospitable enjoyment as 
he held up his slim glass of tapering amber to the 
toasts. Then the dancing, with darky fiddlers from 
the quarter, and last, when the ladies were gone 
to their rooms, a punch of Antigua rum for the 
gentlemen in a rare Japanese bowl and long- 
stemmed pipes of tobacco in the big parlor. 

Into the after-evening came the chariot of Lord 


HORSE AND AWAY 


53 


Fairfax, bearing the old baron, with a message for 
Colonel Byrd concerning business of the governor’s 
Council. 

It was a strangely assorted company so far as 
political opinion was concerned, and it was scarce 
to be wondered at if, in those tense days when the 
current of men’s feelings ran so deeply, variant 
minds should openly clash. 

Upon such a turbulent scene Anne chanced to 
look down that night from the upper hall, as she 
passed the break of the wide stairway on her way 
to her own room after a chat with Betsy. 

Through the slender balustrade she caught a 
view of the parlor where Lord Fairfax, huge and 
gaunt, sat wide-kneed by the table, his lighted 
pipe in one great hand, his arm resting where it 
had been thrown affectionately over the back of 
Colonel Washington’s chair. Colonel Overton 
stood leaning against the wainscoting, under a por- 
trait by Mr. Charles Willson Peale, his pipe-stem ges- 
ticulating, his voice raised beyond its wont. 

Henry sat far back, by the deep-throated fire- 
place with its dragon dog-irons, his elbows on his 
knees, taking no part. 

“Think you ’tis kingly work,” Colonel Overton 
was saying, “to blast this fairest colony of all for 
its future? To force slaves upon us thus? So he 


54 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


may draw his gains, the king would overrun our 
shores with a barbarous population from the Niger 
and I know not what black corner of the earth. 
Virginia is the one which suffers most. It must 
end soon — God save it be not by negro outbreaks 
such as in Hispaniola! We have petitioned, we 
have protested, but to what good? George sniffs 
over his barley water and sends us a thousand more !” 

“The slaves are needed for the plantations,” 
quoth my Lord Fairfax, glowering. 

Colonel Overton was not used to mincing words. 

“Needed, forsooth!” he retorted. “The king 
tells us that! He lies, and he knows it! They 
breed fast enough!” 

My Lord Fairfax’s hands had begun to shift 
about the stem of his pipe. These were new times 
indeed! Colonel Washington sat silent and re- 
flective — one would scarce have thought he heard 
except for a look in his eyes. 

“You speak of your sovereign, sir!” thundered 
the old baron. 

“Aye,” Colonel Overton returned, “and how 
rules that sovereign? Why, by a constitution. 
He rules us, but he would make the constitution a 
cloak to cover only England. The Colonies stay in 
the rain. And what does my Lord Mansfield? To- 
day he aids the king to send us negroes; to-morrow 




HOESE AND AWAY 


55 


He sets free a Yirginian wench, brought to London 
by her master !” 

“Granville Sharp !” exclaimed Mr. Payne. “He 
made the point clear enough. When that slave on 
English soil claimed her freedom, they laughed. 
But Sharp asked British justice a question: ‘Shall 
the BIGHT prevail in England?’ That was all. 
But ’twas as if God had spoken. The slave went 
free. Shall what is wrong for England be forever 
right for her Colonies? Are we not Englishmen, 
too?” 

“Englishmen honor their king !” fumed Lord 
Fairfax. 

“So long,” cried Colonel Overton, “as he rules 
honorably. But he must not forget that he gov- 
erns by compact. What was it our ancestors fought 
for at Marston Moor? Sir, it was representation! 
And that the king denies us.” 

“Pho !” grunted Colonel Byrd. “King and 
lords and commons — not one-tenth of England’s 
population votes. The Colonies have their repre- 
sentation in Parliament.” 

“We are two months’ voyage away,” answered 
Colonel Overton. “Can Parliament understand our 
needs? Our politics are for prime ministers to 
play with. One plays to be loved by the people, 
and another to be hated by the king. If Burke 


56 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


sheds tears for us in the Commons, ’tis most likely 
because he hates Chatham. What think you the 
Duke of Grafton — what think you my Lord 
North knows of us? You can see by the 
royal governors he sends us. We are gentlemen 
in Virginia! And we sit for a butcher-mauling 
governor who ought to be sticking skulls up over 
Temple Bar. The Colonies need to choose their 
own law-makers. They need laws advocated by 
American representatives, chosen by Americans.” 

He glanced, as if for approval, about the circle of 
faces, most of them gloomy and troubled. Henry’s 
lean face in the shadow wore a half-smile. 

“As it is,” the speaker went on, “ ’tis a chase over 
a beaten track. The ministries give us the same 
arguments now that they gave us with the Stamp 
Act. ’Tis the Liberals after the king, and the 
Constitutionalists after the Liberals, and the Whigs 
after all, and the king coming again on the same 
scent. The end of it all, I tell you, is nullification, 
and after that — ” 

“Aye,” cried Lord Fairfax fiercely. “And 
then ?” 

“After that— God help us!” 

There was an instant’s silence in which Anne 
could hear the old baron’s wrath bubbling. Colonel 
Tillotson coughed helplessly. 


HOKSE AND AWAY 


'57 


“Gentlemen,” came a lazy voice from the shadow, 
falling like a splash of oil upon a rising reef. “D’ye 
ever hear of that fox Colonel Ochiltree started, over 
in Belvidere?” 

It was Henry, and he dropped his legs from the 
round of his chair and leaned forward, looking up 
with a dry humor. 

No one answered. The heat was in Colonel Over- 
ton’s face, and my Lord Fairfax was still a-simmer 
with anger. 

“’Tis not a bad story,” said Henry slowly. 
“ Y ’ see, all of old Ochiltree’s dogs were Constitu- 
tionalists, the old man himself was a Liberal, and,” 
he added, after a pause, “the fox was a Whig.” 

The host’s face was a study of relief. Colonel 
Overton’s lips drew down into a smile. The old 
baron settled into his chair, his mouth less grim, 
and set his eyes on the punch-bowl. 

“Ochiltree,” went on Henry, “would rather hunt 
than hear a sermon any day, and not the only one, 
neither. Let him start a scent and he’d ride over 
Christmas day and never see it. Well, he found a 
fox one morning back of old Stockoe Creek and put 
him into a hollow tree. He allowed him half an hour 
and put the dogs on again, but in half a mile the 
brute took to another. 

“The old man swore he’d be split but he’d have a 


58 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


run out of that same fox. ‘A pox on him!’ says 
he, and nailed up the tree. 

“Egad, he fed him for three days and set him off 
again, with all the hounds on the place and his 
overseer on the best horse in the stable. He had 
the gout himself, and couldn’t ride that day. Then 
he went back to dinner. 

“The fox took away around Little Hunting Hill 
like the devil skinning slippery-elm, and when 
there was no sign of a return at dark, Ochiltree sat 
all a-chuckle, thinking what a run he was getting 
out of the fox after all. So he sent out some 
blacks with lanterns and went to bed. 

“ ’Slife ! When he got up next morning, no 
noise. He was cursed uneasy by now, for the best 
hounds he had were in the pack, so at dinner-time 
he triced up his gouty leg and rode out to see where 
was his dog-fish of an overseer. 

“As he came to the foot of the hill. Gad’s word ! 
there was a beaten track through the brush looking 
as if a troop of horse had gone by single file, and 
dog tracks, too. And while he was tweaking his 
nose over this, damme if a dog didn’t come trailing 
along, and he saw it was Duchess, his best hound, 
but worn to a shadow. Then a string of dogs loped 
out, and after came the overseer, looking as if he’d 
fall off his horse. 


HOKSE AND AWAY 


50 


“The old man sat awhile after they went by, and 
along came the fox on the same trail round the 
hill. 

“He was so disgusted then that he went home 
and didn’t come back till night. 

“Ton my soul, when he came again, there was 
the whole chase, rounding the hill. The fox was 
walking, the hounds were walking, the overseer’s 
horse was walking — all of them not a rod from 
each other, and that’s God’s truth! 

“When Colonel Ochiltree saw that, ‘Damn my 
bones!’ says he, ‘get the chariot!’ and he put fox 
and hounds and overseer all in it, Jerrycummum- 
ble, and brought ’em home.” 


CHAPTER IV 


THE FREIGHT OF THE “TWO SISTERS* 

Leagues and leagues away from where the summer 
was come golden-sandaled over Virginia, throb- 
bing now with all the pent-up intolerance of years 
of repression and smothered resentment, a ship 
which had been strained and pummeled by two 
months packed with tempest, unfolded new canvas 
under the crumbling splendors of a clearing sky. 
The day drew breezily serene. The sea had tired 
itself out and the sun burned pleasantly in the 
blue. 

One of the few passengers whom the softening 
weather had drawn into, the air — a young French- 
man, fair, slight, well-knit and soberly garbed in 
gray — leaned upon the forward rail with shoulders 
squared to the sunshine and looked below him. 

No mart of the Old World could have shown a 
more strangely assorted company than did the lower 
deck of the brigantine Two Sisters out of London, 
bound for York-town, Virginia. Swarming to the 
' 60 . 


FREIGHT OF THE “TWO SISTERS* 61 


bulwarks was a motley herd of redemptioners. A 
few young women of fair color, English country 
girls from the farmlands, looking forward to new 
things and a rosy marriage in this new land which 
beckoned to every creed and nation. More wore 
harder faces, toil-sharpened — men who had worked 
their trade soberly to yield at last to the spur of 
ambition and barter six years of plantation labor 
for a passage to opportunity. Mixed with these 
still others, men and women of unlovely look, taw- 
dry and sloven, lured by the crimps from stews 
and night-cellars, drifting to the new life because 
perforce it could not hold worse than the old. Here 
and there was a face, too, that bore the unmistaka- 
ble mark of crime. Many a convict fled here in 
this year of 1774, escaping the rack, the ear-cropper 
and the cart’s tail. Indeed so greedy were the plan- 
tation factors of hands that more than one colony 
was made to hold open arms to the Old World’s 
vagrants, its felons and its dregs. 

The memory of posterity is charitable to the 
makers of new colonies. 

Now the creatures who had wallowed in sullen 
waiting or cried shrilly to their Saints were still, 
or babbling of other things. From the rigging a 
tarred mariner bawled his polygamous lay of “Bold 
Jack in the Ways,” and the few passengers, who had 


62 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


weathered the storm grumbling or dicing below deck, 
were sunning themselves upon the poop. 

The young Frenchman shifted his slow gaze from 
the redemptioners and let it run far out over the' 
water, watching the little spots of foam that marbled 
the great waste. He was undeniably good-looking, 
of an elusive, beardless charm, with a forehead graver 
than his mouth. His hair was rich brown, long 
and curling, for he wore no wig, and his finely-cut 
lips were set over a chin of bold delicacy. His eyes 
were full and hazel, his expression one of zest and 
eagerness. 

On this day, as he leaned against the rail, a man 
was watching him intently from where he stood, 
farther back. The man’s name was Jarrat, and he 
wore the uniform of a captain in his Majesty’s 
Horse. 

To relate that Captain Jarrat had carried his 
handsome face and domineering bearing aboard 
the ship on the day of sailing, with a letter from 
Lord Stormont, British Ambassador in Paris, 
hidden in his breast pocket, is to go back a bit. 
Jarrat was close-mouthed. As far as the other pas- 
sengers were concerned he was a British officer, re- 
turning to the Virginias. To a nice eye he would 


FREIGHT OF THE “TWO SISTERS” 63 


have betrayed an over-intimate curiosity as to a 
certain passenger. 

The second day out he accosted the skipper. Master 
Jabez Elves, and wished him fair weather and a 
good day, with an insinuating accent which be- 
tokened a bent for conversation. Rut Master Elves 
replied only with a nautical grunt 

Jarrat tried a direct inquiry: 

“Where is the Marquis de la Trouerie?” 

“Sick,” replied the skipper. “In his cabin,” and 
rolled away. 

“Ah,” smirked Jarrat, “our French gentleman is 
a, poor sailor.” 

But as the days went by it became certain that 
the distinguished passenger was ill of a less passing 
malady than mal-de-mer. 

On an evening the captain pushed open a narrow 
cabin door at the end of a passage; but before he 
could enter a young man sprang up and barred the 
way. 

“I would see the Marquis de la Trouerie,” said 
J arrat. 

“You can not see him, Monsieur.” The young 
man’s tone was very firm* 

“Who are you ?” 

“The marquis’s secretary, Monsieur.” 


64 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Jarrat took a gold crown from his pocket and of- 
fered it to the other with the easy effrontery of on© 
perfectly certain of his ground. Every underling, 
it was his belief, had his price, from lackeys to 
prime ministers. It is a theory which on the whole 
works not badly. 

The man before him, however, was of another 
sort. He put the coin back. “You can not see 
the marquis. Monsieur/’ he repeated. 

“Can not, you whelp • . . ” said Jarrat, 
with his tongue on his lip, and in the soft tone 
which with him covered a white boil of rage. A 
copper lantern, pierced with holes, threw yellow 
beams down the passage, and in this glare the young 
man on the threshold saw his face, evilly beautiful 
and distorted. The coin rattled on the floor. 

The young Frenchman stooped to pick up the gold 
piece. “Monsieur has dropped his crown/’ he said, 
holding it out. . 

Jarrat took it and thrust it into his pocket. “It 
was too small a douceur” he said, easily, “eh. Master 
Secretary ?” 

Most of those on the ship did not know, so in- 
sular were the prejudices of the Anglo-Saxon, that 
the Marquis de la Trouerie was a personage in his 
own country. Even Caron de Beaumarchais, son 


FREIGHT OF THE “TWO SISTERS” 65 


of a watch-maker, that airy, naive, fantastic char- 
latan who, at the age of twenty-fonr, had washed 
his hands at his father’s shop, changed his clothes and 
gone to court to give the four daughters of Louis 
XV lessons on the harp — even he was less welcome 
at the Tuileries or less a favorite of the young 
Queen Marie Antoinette than this same nobleman, 
now aboard the Two Sisters. 

It is, perhaps, not to be wondered at that the 
passengers knew little of such things, and doubt- 
less, for the most part, cared less. Two Annapo- 
lis merchants (loyal, since the non-importa- 
tion agreements had pinched their pockets) — a brace 
of London factors looking for likely agencies — a 
Virginian, fresh from study in the Middle Temple, 
bound for the wool-sack at Lancaster — a British 
quartermaster journeying to Boston — what should 
such a company know of Gallic pedigrees or the 
chatter of the French court ? 

A diplomat might have found in the presence 
of the marquis something to ponder. For at that 
time strange things were stirring. Louis XVI, 
young, enthusiastic, unaccustomed, was learning for 
the first how exceeding difficult it is to be a king. 
Monsieur Turgot, his grim old minister of finance, 
logical, pitiless, cold as a dog’s nose, was pulling 


66 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


one way; Beaumarchais, brilliant as a chameleon, 
fascinating, egotist, intimate of the French queen, 
was pulling another. 

And what was the hone of contention? Whether 
France should give her treasure to the secret aid 
of the American Colonies. With such counsels in 
the air England slept, like a surly bull-dog, with one 
eye open. She watched at home and her astute 
Ambassador, Lord Stormont, kept a hawk’s eye upon 
the ’Tuileries. 

So, in itself, there was an interest for those who 
knew, attaching to the sudden journeying to Amer- 
ica of this man, so near to the French counsels, at 
once a noble, a courtier and a republican. And 
this interest was intensified for Jarrat, who, mind- 
ful of a letter he carried of confidential import, 
hugged the reflection that he knew the reason for it. 

Jarrat, like many another schemer, made the error 
of under-valuing the intellectuality of an opponent. 
He had small idea that the marquis’s young secre- 
tary was observant in his turn. It was nevertheless 
the fact. But Monsieur Armand, who had scented 
him very early, kept his cabin, and no one aboard — 
the ship carried no leech — saw his master. 

Four days after the episode of the gold crown, 
Jarrat tried the skipper again. 

Master Elves chewed a bitter cud and wore a 


FREIGHT OF THE “TWO SISTERS” 67 


habitual droop to his eye. How the courtesy came 
as thickly as cold-weather treacle. 

“The Marquis de la Trouerie,” he answered, “ain’t 
on the ship.” 

Jarrat stepped hack heavily. “Hot on the ship, 
fiend plague me ! He is on the ship.” 

“Mayhap ye know better nor I,” answered Master 
Elves shortly. 

Jarrat hurst out laughing. He felt a sudden con- 
tempt for this clumsy subterfuge. 

“A brave seclusion!” he cried. “And how long 
is it to last? Is the noble gentleman to lie sham- 
ming Abraham in his cabin till we sight the Virginia 
capes? Awhile ago he was sick, guarded from all 
our pining eyes by his argus-eyed clerk. How, be- 
hold, he is not even aboard. 0, an accomplished 
nobleman !” 

The skipper squinted out to sea and a drawn pucker 
came to his lips. 

“See here,” said Jarrat, his tone taking edge. “I 
have business with this gentleman, and I’ll not be 
put off. This is the eighth day out and he hasn’t 
shown his nose out of his cabin. ’Tis my opinion 
he’s no more sick than I am.” 

“Ho more is he,” said Master Elves. “What 
then?” 

“Just this. I want to see the marquis, and I 


68 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


mean to see the marquis. D’ye hear that, you lump- 
fin? 'Twill he better for you, I can tell you, if 
you fetch me to him at once !" 

The skipper's moment had arrived. 

“Fetch ye to him!" he roared, with something 
between an oath and a chuckle. “Damn my sprit- 
sails, hut ye can swim to hell and back then! The 
man ye're after died of flux two days ago and was 
sent to the fishes last night! Fetch ye to him! 
Haw-haw !" 

With this parting shot he went off spitting 
furiously. 

“Dead!" exclaimed Jarrat, with sagging jaw, star- 
ing after him. “Dead!" he said again; and then 
stood, vacant-eyed, his face the dull color of chagrin 
in which calculation has had no time to slip. 

With the passengers the young secretary, Monsieur 
Armand, had his way to make and this he accom- 
plished with abundant good nature. Him they first 
snubbed, then tolerated, then liked. 

The young Virginian, Breckinridge Cary, sought 
him openly and more than once drew his arm through 
his own as he walked the deck. The Virginian was 
beyond question of the quality, and certain footing 
had made for him social squeamishness unnecessary. 
As for the secretary, he went his way with imper- 


FREIGHT OF THE “TWO SISTERS” 69 


turbable good humor. Even storm could not dampen 
his spirits. 

For reasons that have been stated, the news of 
the demise of the marquis, whom the passengers 
had not known to regret, made little sensation on 
the Two Sisters. Next day a bark was sighted 
out from Norfolk, and there was a budget of New- 
World news and a bunch of Virginia Gazettes to fur- 
nish matter for talk. A fortnight later the incident, 
however full of moment it may have been to Paris, 
was well-nigh forgot. They had not all of them 
Jarrat’s reasons for remembering. 

But, as days wore on, and calm succeeded storm, 
Jarrat, who thought much, studied Monsieur Ar- 
mand with a lazy interest that in time, as shall be 
seen, gave birth to a plan. He gave the secretary 
no cause to remember their first meeting at the 
little cabin door and schooled his tone to an in- 
sinuating friendliness. He even condescended to 
game with him and to question him amiably touch- 
ing politics in France, and more than one of these 
inquiries turned cunningly, as on a pivot, upon the 
young man’s late master. 

So a month passed, pleasantly for some, irksomely 
for most. Jarrat watched the secretary boldly; the 
secretary, in his own way, watched J arrat. And so it 


70 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


stood on the serene day when Monsieur Armand 
leaned upon the rail and looked out across the 
shadowless waste where the track of the blazing 
sun stretched in a molten dazzle like a quivering 
spear of God’s. 

Presently he felt a light touch on his arm, and 
turning, saw the Virginian. 

“Dreaming?” asked Cary. “Of what?” 

“Of your golden land, Monsieur.” 

The other smiled, then sighed and leaned beside 
him. “A golden land, in sooth. I would it had no 
storms, but a sweet sun dawning ever for it. 
Troubled, indeed, it was when I left it — more 
troubled now as I return.” He paused a while. 

“I love the land,” he said; “I know not if even 
France can be so lovely. Is it so? And do you 
love it ?” 

The young Frenchman’s face grew earnest. 

“When I was born,” he replied, “France was 
good. Monsieur — I think it was the best land in 
the world, as to-day it is the most beautiful. But 
Louis the Fifteenth was young then. Since 
have come a Pompadour and a Du Barry. So it is 
that the good in France has been hidden under- 
neath many other things. It is true that the minis- 
ters of the crown have sold titles of honor — places 


FREIGHT OF THE “TWO SISTERS” 71 

in the courts. Justice — the thing for which your 
Colony now is crying to England — this has been 
impossible to the poor, the low. The rich buy it. 
Paris laughs and does not care! There the wits 
lampoon the dignitaries, the young bishops sneer 
at God and the abbes are become elegant to kiss 
the hands of painted countesses. But the poor, the 
oppressed — the people, Monsieur — what of them?” 

He let his gaze wander. A dreamy light was in 
his eyes. 

“Ah, Monsieur, they have watched. They have 
been waiting. They are ignorant. They were never 
taught. But all this time, one man — the exiled, 
the glorious, ... he has been writing. He 
has taught that the unnoble are not field beasts, that 
they are men; that the noble and the peasant are 
all one — that the poor must not be trodden on.” 

“Voltaire,” Cary said in a low voice. 

“France,” Armand went on, “has been reading this 
one. The smith and the plowman talk of what he 
has said in the rows and at the forge. It is not 
only the poor, the low. Monsieur. Nobles who wear 
coroneted swords also think these things. They, 
loving liberty, would give their lives for their king. 
There is in Paris a club ...” 

He paused abruptly. When he began again it 
was in a voice tinged with sadness. 


n 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“Louis the Fifteenth is dead. Louis the Sixteenth 
reigns.” 

Cary’s glance flashed into his. 

“Louis the Sixteenth is young and ambitious. He 
hates England. An there were war here, ’twould 
advantage him to aid the Colonies.” 

“Monsieur,” declared the other, “it might ruin 
him. Listen ! His own people are worse foes to the 
king of France than England, Monsieur. And aid- 
ing the Colonies here is putting a two-edged sword 
into their hands ! Even now they have the wish to 
redeem France. But they know not how. They 
have never seen such a thing. Power is all around 
them and it seems as if it must last forever. So it is. 
Monsieur, that these nobles — these of better blood — 
who love first of all their France — I could tell names 
— a Mirabeau, a Lafayette — they would have their 
king aid America. They have joined hands with 
men of lower birth like Beaumarchais and made 
courtiers of them to the same end.” 

“But,” reflected Cary, puzzled, “you say to help 
our Colonies might ruin Louis. Why, then, would 
these nobles push the plan? Have they such hate 
of England?” 

“Ho, no ; not because they hate England as Louis 
does, but because they love France better than Louis, 
and to save her they must even risk to ruin him. 


FREIGHT OF THE “TWO SISTERS” 73 


There is more than one French king at stake — there 
is a dynasty ! These are not the middle ages. Mon- 
sieur. In these days the peoples are awaking. France, 
if she lives, must open her eyes. These men I tell 
you of would jolt her wide awake. They would have 
her smiths and her plowmen stop their toil to listen 
across the seas — to hear the guns of a people who 
would not be oppressed — to see royal mercenaries 
driven into the sea just by people like them! Then 
their murmur would be a roar. They would say, 
‘So can we do also !’ Then the corrupt court would 
stand terror-stricken. And then at last there would 
be an end of the selling of titles, of the elegant 
bishops and the painted countesses. France would 
put on purity again, and her king and her nobles 
would rule justly, and poverty would not stalk every- 
where. These nobles of which I speak are loyal, 
Monsieur; they love first France and then their 
king.” 

“Gentlemen,” rose Jar rat’s voice, “the hog-pen is 
just below you. Will you come aft where the look- 
out is more agreeable and join me in a game of 
loo?” 

On a morning when land had-been long promised 
and was eagerly looked for, the young Frenchman, 
Monsieur Armand, mounted to the deck. His face 


HEABTS ' COUEAGEOUS 


74 

was weather-burnt and the salt breath of the spume 
fell damp on his hair. The Virginian came and 
stood beside him and both looked down upon the 
wretched legion of redemptioners crowding the lower 
deck, gazing dumbly up like cattle. 

“A brave sight,” submitted Cary, “to show the 
riches of the Colonies.” 

His tone was not without bitterness, as the French- 
man perceived. “You would not have it so?” 

“I? Ho. We have no need of some of the off- 
scouring you see there; it will breed us the curse 
of crime. But what care the factors? ’Tis profit 
to them. And what cares the king ? It means more 
tobacco, and tobacco stuffs his coffers.” 

“Yet some of these may be lifted by opportu- 
nity.” 

“Aye,” answered Cary. “Bad as they are. Wooden 
hogs, fair sick for the lash, lumps from Cork or 
lack-Latin sots shipped for school-masters. Their 
sons may he good citizens. Hew lands, new con- 
ditions. If this land be not saddled with another’s 
ills, here these shall at, least have hope. By their 
faces they leave not much to love behind them.” 

Before either spoke again a cry came up from 
where a knot of sloven redemptioners were gathered 
«■ — a cry and a hoarse word in one. Down below, at 


(FREIGHT OF THE “TWO SISTERS” 75 


one side, a woman leaned, hogging a shawl-wrapped 
bundle to. her breast.. 

She was a drab, but with a certain sullen beauty 
that is bred of Latin blood. Armand had seen her 
face more than once transfigured by that wondrous 
glory of mother-love. He had that very day heard 
her crooning, softly as she walked, noted the strange 
furtiveness .with which she avoided the too curious 
gaze of her fellows — wondered what subtle grace 
nature had lent for mother eyes to those infant 
features. 

How one of the crew stood over her, plucking at 
the shawl. She was weeping passionately, loudly, 
without pretense of concealment. 

“What a devil’s that?” bawled the mate’s voice 
from a rope ladder. 

“The brat’s dead,” said the sailor. “Blow me 
tight, I’ve been watching her for two days. The 
lallop’s been singing to it to pull the wool over our 
eyes.” 

“Dead is it ? Pitch it overboard, then.” He 
kicked down a greasy rag of canvas. 

As the man he commanded approached the woman 
she fell on her knees, shrinking in close against the 
bulwarks and speaking rapidly in some foreign 
tongue. 

“What’s that lob-lolly ?” asked the mate* 


76 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“She says,” translated one of the pitiful group 
around her, “that the land is so near. And the watei 
is cold. She wants to bury it in the ground.” 

“Split me,” oathed the mate, “is that all? Over 
with it, Jerry!” 

Again she spoke, volubly and with many groveling 
sobs. 

“She says,” said the redemptioner, “that if it could 
only be blessed ! There is no priest aboard.” 

The mate, with his hands on the rail, laughed at 
this. “Do what I say, you down there,” he cried; 
“will ye stand making mouths all day? Tie it in 
that canvas.” 

The man he had bidden approached the woman 
to take the cold little body from her, hut she turned 
suddenly a fury, and holding it to her breast with 
one arm, fought him off screaming. 

He jumped back with his hand clapped to his 
arm-pit. “HelU” he yelled. “The Jezebel’s bit 
me!” 

There was a great laugh from the sailors, and the 
mate cursed luridly from above. “Are ye molly- 
coddles, then?” he shouted. As they hesitated, he 
scrambled down hand over hand, damning them for 
land-lubbers and clearly minded to do it himself. 

The Frenchman’s fingers, as he stood beside the 
.Virginian, gripped the rail. “Swine !” he said, un- 


FREIGHT OF THE “TWO SISTERS” 77 


der his breath. Then he leaned over and called 
clearly. “Keep your hand from that woman.”" 

The mate looked up astonished at the group, for 
the other passengers had gathered to witness what 
was going on. 

“What’s that?” he asked. 

Armand repeated his words. 

The mate’s face turned a spongy purple, and he 
laughed in a way that was not good to hear. For 
answer he reached out a hand to the shawl and 
literally tore it away from the poor clay it covered. 

At the instant he did so Armand vaulted the rail 
where he stood, caught a rope, swung to a stanchion, 
and landed as lightly as a cat at the side of the 
burly ruffian. The act was so clean, so graceful 
and so quick that none of the passengers could have 
told exactly how it was done. 

The mate turned, and seeing him at his elbow, 
struck with all his strength at the other’s head. 

The stroke was one to stun, but it never reached 
home. The young foreigner bent one side, not mov- 
ing his feet, with a motion that would have spoken 
volumes to an athlete, and the mate’s fist banged 
against the bulwark. While he staggered from this, 
Armand, seizing a rope’s end as he circled, cut him 
across the face with such a slash that the blood ran 
from the gash. 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Now ensued a strange combats The mate, heavy 
and cumbrous, tried to reach the other with sledge- 
hammer blows. The Frenchman, slight, wary, cir- 
cling, retreating, slipped hither and thither. Three 
times in as many seconds that sibilant “swish” sang, 
and a red mark sprang out on the brutal face. 

At each swing of the fist a sort of groan went up 
from the huddled redemptioners, and at each cut 
they sucked in their breath with delight. It was 
a new, strange entertainment for them — to have 
a brain-sick passenger descend from his clean deck 
to champion the cause of a scum. 

The Virginian, looking down, was quivering vis- 
ibly. As the passenger evaded a blow that would 
have crushed his ribs he could not forbear a shouts 
“Well done, by the Lord! But ’ware the clinch! 
9 Ware the clinch. Monsieur V 9 
For the mate, though maddened out of himself, 
had shown a sudden gleam of purpose. He was 
forcing the secretary back into a corner between 
bulwark and stanchion, not striking, his burly arms 
now stretched out widely. Even as Cary shouted, 
the arms gripped Armand like a vise, and the 
stinging rope’s-end, useless now, fell to the deck, 
Over the upper rail the passengers leaned, watch- 


FREIGHT OF THE “TWO SISTERS” 7$ 


“A shame!” cried one, “That bloody brute will 
kill him out of hand !” 

W5 Tis the clerk. Pshaw!” said the quartermas- 
ter, “He sides with the rabble; let the rabble care 
for him.” 

The woman who had been the unwitting cause 
of this struggle crouched back of the first sullenly 
intent rows, waiting, hugging her bundle. The 
others watched, guessing well what the issue would 
be — most of them accepting it as they had accepted 
the unspeakable fare, the cursings and revilings of 
the crew, with that stolid acceptance which, multi- 
plied by centuries of heredity, had brought them 
at last to this same condition. 

The Virginian leaned down with vibrant hope- 
lessness. He looked to see the secretary, vised and 
crackled in those arms, drop limp and senseless. 
As he looked he saw Armand’s face, very white, 
turn up to him. 

Then, like lightning, a wonderful thing happened. 
The young man’s chin sank deep into the hollow of 
the other’s shoulder — his arms went up about the 
muscles of the bulky back — lithe legs like wire went 
suddenly curling and twisting about the stocky ones. 
A moment of strained silence and a glaze of shocked 
surprise on the mate's slashed face, then-^ 


80 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Crack ! The coil untwisted, the mate relaxed, tot- 
tered and fell to the deck. 

There was at this time in France a curious science 
known as “La Savate.” The Japanese have it under 
another name. It was first taught in the thieving 
dens of Paris, and was to some extent popularized 
by a clever rogue who earned freedom from the 
Bastille by teaching it to young officers of title. It 
was an art of leg-fence; and by precisely the same 
twist and wring which a practised swordsman uses 
to disarm an adversary, the blade in this case be- 
ing bone and flesh, Armand had sent the mate’s 
knee leaping from its socket. 

To the majority of those who saw it this was per- 
fectly incomprehensible. A gasp of wonder ran 
among the redemptioners, and they laughed loudly 
at the mate’s groan. The secretary had lost none of 
his alertness, though he was breathing hard. He 
sprang at the stanchion, clearly intending to return 
to the upper deck by the way he had come. 

But he was too late. The mate’s sailors rushed 
upon him. 

Cary, shaking with excitement, sent out a cry. 

“By Harry!” he shouted to the passengers about 
him. “Shall we see him that fought so beat like 
a dog? Are we poltroons, all?” 

He leaped the rail, but before he could reach the 


FREIGHT OF THE “TWO SISTERS" 81 


lower level, aid came to Armand, so hard beset. 
The skipper dived into the circle on a run, an evil 
light in his eyes and a marlinspike in his hand. 
He knocked the foremost senseless and the rest scat- 
tered. 

“Damn yer entrails!” he bellowed. “Set on a 
passenger, ye dog-fish! By the devil. I’ll mizzen 
ye naked! Get to work and take this away,” he 
commanded, jerking a thumb at the mate who sat 
up, nursing his knee. 

The woman, still holding the bundle, had pressed 
to the secretary’s side and was pouring out a tor- 
rent of grateful incoherencies. Master Elves began 
cursing her with vigor, but Armand touched his arm. 

“The babe is dead,” he said. “Your mate would 
have cast it overboard. I ask for the mother a 
twelve-hours’ time. If we do not sight land by 
then, I will ask no more.” 

But land was not to be seen that day. Next morn- 
ing came, and the secretary’s fight had been in 
vain. Then there was another gathering to the 
forward rail of the upper deck. 

This was to watch the young Frenchman sitting 
among the redemptioners, sewing a round-shot care- 
fully into the foot of a white silk bundle, the size 
of a babe. The mother, now with empty arms, trailed 
her long hair and sat red-eyed, sodden with weeping, 


S2 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


beside him. This done, he stitched over the silk 
neckerchief a clean canvas, and last of all sewed to 
its top a tiny gold cross which he took from his 
pocket. The bundle, held now by willing hands, 
was laid on a little board, whose end projected over 
the rail, and then Armand, with bared head, took 
his stand beside it, and they heard his voice repeat- 
ing part of the Huguenot service for the dead. 

Few understood the words, for they were French, 
but all grasped their meaning. The fresh cheeks 
of the girls were wet with tears. The toilers’ seamed 
faces were pitiful. Even the crime-smirched ones 
were softer. And the mother was satisfied. Had 
not her child been blessed? To her none but a 
priest could perform such a rite, and Armand, 
though wearing no cassock, was yet, in some myste- 
rious way, a priest. 

So are we all His ministers! 


CHAPTER V 


THE TOSS OP A COIN 

The York-town wharf was a fair sight to the 
passengers of the Two Sisters as the ship swung 
to her moorings. Beyond the yellow clay bank the 
shore glowed in a violet-green dazzle of foliage— 
a flame of amethyst and pink, and over all the sun 
hung hazy, like some splendid dream rose, strewing 
its petals upon a bay of tinted glass. 

The bank behind the wharf was a fringe of negroes, 
their vacant-minded happiness shaking out laughter 
as wind shakes blossoms from a locust tree. The 
gay colored turbans bobbed like variegated poppies 
on a breezy day. The planking below was sprinkled 
with townfolk, and on the road behind it several 
chariots were drawn up at some distance. 

In advance of these and in the rear of the crowd, 
with Betsy Byrd in the saddle beside it, stood the 
Tillotson coach, framing in its window a face with 
a flicker of laughter over it like the wind on a May 
83 


84 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


meadow. Anne was in close green, and with her 
oak-yellow hair looked a gold spear rising straight 
from its sheath. As early as noon one of the Tillot- 
son blacks had ridden to Gladden Hall with the news 
that the ship had been sighted down the bay, and 
Anne had ordered the chariot forthwith. Betsy had 
a new peacock shawl coming in Master Elves’s care, 
and had made the pilgrimage from Williamsburg 
every day for a week. 

“What a pity!” exclaimed Anne, who had been 
first to arrive. “Mr. Cary — Breckinridge Cary — 
came on the ship, but she lay in Hampton Roads 
last night and he there found a packet for Phila- 
delphia. So we shall not see him till the spring.” 

“I’m sorry,” Betsy answered. “Frank saw him 
in London. What a lot there are here! There is 
Burnaby Rolph of Westham, here for more redemp- 
tioners, no doubt. He bought a round dozen last 
ship. Why doesn’t he leave that for his factor, 
like a gentleman, I wonder?” 

Anne looked at the man she indicated — of medium 
height, with a sheep-face, long in the tooth — and 
turned away with a little shudder. He stood with 
thick legs planted firmly, talking with a neighbor, 
his head turned over his shoulder, and as they looked 
he raised his sword-hilt and struck savagely at a 
black who jostled him. “Poor servants who fall 


THE TOSS OF A COIN - 85 

into Mr. Bolph’s hands. I pity them!” she said, in 
a low voice. 

“J ohn-the-Baptist,” she called to her mounted 
servant. “Did you go down to inquire about Miss 
Betsy’s chest, as I told you?” 

“Yas’m, yas’m. Done been down dar twic’t.” 

“Are you sure ?” 

“Yas’m, on meh honah !” 

“Honor!” Anne said, severely. “What do you 
know about honor, John-the-Baptist ?” 

The darkey responded with a ragged grin. “I 
lister hab er heap er honah,” he said vaguely, “but 
I got so ’strav’gant wid it I spec’ I ain’ got much 
lef’ now.” 

“Look yonder, Anne,” whispered Betsy. “Isn’t 
that a genteel-looking young man? What a lovely 
brown his hair is. He’s looking this way. His 
coat has a foreign cut; I warrant he came on the 
ship. There is Master Brooke standing by him 
now.” 

Anne’s eyes showed her a gray coat unslashed, 
plain hose and shoes with a neat steel buckle — 
a dress neither rich nor poor. There was no lace 
upon the hat, no paste knee-buckles, no sword — none 
of the marks of distinction. But the face was open 
and the nut-dark eyes frank and clear. 

She had gazed but a moment when a familiar 


86 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


red-coat shouldered its way through the press. She 
bit her lip and turned her head away, hut Betsy 
was deep in chat with young Mr. Carlyle, kinsman 
to the Belvoir Fairfaxes — a youth lean as a rake, 
of a pale disposition, all hair and eyes. 

The new-comer strode to the steps with assurance 
and touched Anne’s fingers with his lips. “Still 
so cold — so far away? Still cherishing a frown 
for me ?” 

“I looked not to see you. Captain Jarrat.” 

“I am hut just returned from London.” 

“On the Two Sisters ?” 

“Aye,” he answered, with a slumbering flush on 
his face. “The moth returns to the lamp — a pretty 
conceit, is it not?” 

She moved her shoulders with a gesture of im- 
patience. 

“Why am I doomed to be ever in your bad graces. 
Mistress Tillotson? Oh, ’tis true. I would it were 
not! ’Twas so in Williamsburg. Had you a smile 
for me ? ’Twas when I went. Well, I return to the 
frown.” 

“I have naught else for you. I have told you 
so.” 

“And yet,” he said, constrainedly, “for another 
kind of look from you I would forget all else. I 
Would change all, risk all. Can I never win aught 


THE TOSS OF A COIN 


87 


from such a love as mine? Will you never tell 
me how to change myself for you ? Shall I go always 
wanting?” A fierce and unhappy passion was writ- 
ten in his face. 

She turned from him coldly. “I beg you will 
not recur to that. Captain,” she said. “My answer 
was my answer. I can never give you more.” 

He touched his breast, drawing his hand across 
the gold slashings of his coat. “Is it this? Do 
you frown upon his Majesty’s uniform? I swear 
I would I were a Whig l” 

“A Tory before a turn-coat,” she answered him. 

Jarrat shut his teeth like a trap. Then without 
reply he bowed to her and strode toward the ship. 
Betsy, turning her horse, saw only his vanishing 
figure, Anne’s face a flush-red gust of anger and her 
eyes gleaming like blue ice. 

“Why,” exclaimed she in surprise. “’Twas Cap- 
tain Jarrat!” 

“I wish,” said Anne, with temper, giving Betsy’s 
horse a slap that made him dance and called forth 
a curdling scream from its rider — “I wish Captain 
Jarrat was in Guinea !” 

As J arrat stepped on to the deck, the gang-way was 
thrown down for the herded human cattle that had 
thronged the lower deck. Sixty odd, they came 
trooping out to where the factors were gathered; 


88 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


and the ship’s agent at once began the bidding 
by offering a convict smith hound for seven years 
and allowed only diet and lodging, who, he de- 
clared, made great diversion by singing and whis- 
tling, besides being rare at iron work. 

The sale proceeded rapidly, for bond-servants were 
in demand and the lot was above an average one. 
They stood for inspection eagerly or stolidly, as 
their faces promised, some sullen-eyed, some smirk- 
ing. The women were offered last. But few re- 
mained when the agent beckoned to the swarthy- 
skinned woman whose babe had died during the 
voyage, and she came forward timidly, turning her 
sloe-black Italian eyes upon the crowd in misunder- 
standing and cowering dread. Her hair and the red 
olive of her skin made a curious contrast to the light 
complexions of the other women. 

Burnaby Rolph, who had purchased two labor- 
ers, looked her over with satisfaction. 

“A likely wench,” he gulped. “Twenty pounds 
is enough, I doubt not, since she is foreign. I take 
her. Put that down to my reckoning. Master 
Clarkson.” 

“Poor thing,” said Anne. “I would I were a 
man. That brute should never have her!” She 
looked up and felt the young Frenchman’s eyes full 
upon her. He had clearly overheard. 


THE TOSS OF A COIN 


89 


“You belong to him now,” said the agent to the 
woman, pointing to Eolph. “D’ye understand?” ‘ 

She gazed into Eolph’s face and shrinkingly about 
the circle. Then, with a sudden cry, doubling like 
an animal, she dodged between the knots of specta- 
tors and threw herself at Armand’s feet. 

Eolph’s curse was lost in a great laugh which 
rose from the factors, and Anne’s face stung red 
at a coarse remark from one of them. 

Monsieur Armand did not seem nonplussed. He 
stooped and lifted the cringing woman to her feet as 
Eolph approached, his lean eyes winking. 

“My wench seems to have an uncommon fancy,” 
the latter sneered. “Gall me, why did you not buy 
her?” 

“Will you sell her to me ?” 

The other looked at the secretary’s dress and 
glowered at the merriment of the onlookers. 

“Ho,” he blurted. 

Armand smiled with suavity. “Perhaps it would 
pleasure you to game with me for her? In my 
country, gentlemen,” he remarked to those around, 
“we are over-fond of the dice-table. As for me — 
I could never resist to woo the hazard of fortune. 
Mayhap, however, here you are less adventurous. 
More cautious. Monsieur, or, as those who, having 
little, hesitate to risk.” 


90 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Rolph grunted at this airy thrust and gnawed his 
lip. His estate of Bentcliff was the largest on all 
the James, and this, it was said, he had won in 
the palace in Williamsburg fifteen years before, in 
a wild night of play with Governor Fauquier’s 
gambling crew. 

“I will lay against her,” added Armand, “double 
the amount she cost you. And a toss of a coin shall 
decide.” 

The factors gasped and stood looking the speaker 
over. Rolph stared an instant, then: “Damn my 
pluck — done ! Leave the indenture open. Master 
Clarkson, and bring it here.” 

A wager in Virginia never failed to provoke in- 
terest, whether it were for a pair of spurs or a 
pipe of canary, and now all were listening eagerly. 
The two girls, from their positions, could see with- 
out difficulty over the intervening heads. 

“Let us go farther away,” said Anne. But Betsy 
was of a different mind. “No, no,” she protested. 
“They are going to toss. I wouldn’t miss it now 
for anything. He is French, Anne; I can tell by 
the accent.” 

Rolph called and threw the gold coin he had 
drawn from his pocket, with a flourish. “The king’s 
head!” rose a score of voices as it fell; “Mr. Rolph 
wins.” 


THE TOSS OF A COIN 


91 


“Oh dear!” exclaimed Betsy in great vexation. 

“I really believe,” said Anne with heat, “that 
you want that man to win.” 

“Weren’t you just now wishing you were a man 
so Mr. Rolph shouldn’t?” retorted Betsy. 

Monsieur Armand had drawn forth a wallet from 
his pocket and lifted out the sum. “Fortune beams 
upon you. Monsieur,” he smiled. “I was ever un- 
lucky of a Wednesday. Shall we have one more 
throw? And double or quits, mayhap. Monsieur? 
Unless you deem the stake over high ...” 

“High!” said Rolph with a growl. “Double or 
quits it is. Eighty pounds against your lost forty 
and the wench. But, mind you, this one throw ends 
it. D’ye hear ?” 

The other tossed. There was a shout as the coin 
descended, for it lodged in the brim of a spectator’s 
hat and could not be counted. At the next trial 
it rolled in a spiral and finally stood edgewise in a 
crack of the wharf flooring. 

A third time the young Frenchman sent it spin- 
ning. It twinkled in the sunlight, fell, bounded 
sideways, the crowd parting before it, rolled across 
the open space and toppled over a few feet from 
Anne. Instinctively she leaned far out of the coach 
and looked. 


92 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“It shows the arms !” she cried in spite of herself. 
The coin had fallen on its obverse side. 

“Fortune has turned,” the secretary observed 
easily. “It appears, Monsieur, that the servant is 
mine. The remainder of the stake, if you please.” 

“'Twas but his assurance he wagered with,” 
snarled Rolph. “It will not hold. What does this 
sorry raiment with thus much money, gentlemen? 
He does not own so much. I dispute the bet.” 

“And Mr. Rolph calls himself a gentleman !” Anne 
said disgustedly. 

Monsieur Armand looked at his antagonist with 
undisguised contempt, and the murmurs of the as- 
sembly, who loved fair play, were so unmistakable 
that Rolph drew out bills and indenture with a curse 
and drove off with a black look. 

Anne watched him go, a curl on her lip. When 
she turned at Betsy^s exclamation, it was first to be 
aware that all on the wharf were looking her way, 
that some of them were smiling, and then that the 
young Frenchman, with the redemptioner woman 
following him, was approaching her. 

Before she had recovered from her astonishment 
he was bowing low. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “will 
pardon the liberty I take in addressing her?” 

She bowed coldly, half startled. 

“Fate,” he went on, “has made me the owner of 


THE TOSS OF A COIN 


93 


this servant for whom, being no landholder, I have 
scant use. She speaks a strange tongue and is in 
a strange land, and to free her without bond-time 
were small kindness. May I beg the favor,- Mad- 
emoiselle, that you take her in your service, demand- 
ing such labor as will requite her support ?” 

The indignant color flooded Anne’s brow. 
“Sir!” she said frigidly, drawing herself up. “We 
have strange surprises in Virginia. But surely the 
effrontery of our visitors surpasses them all.” 

Armand looked clearly at her out of his dark 
eyes. “Mademoiselle will pardon,” he answered, 
“the error of one of these visitors who, seeing her 
face, has overestimated her graciousness and charity.” 

With this he bowed again till his hat swept the 
ground, and, followed by the bondwoman, walked 
down the wharf toward the unlading vessel. 

The red in Anne’s cheeks had grown to fire-brands 
and her anger lent sting to the half-concealed smirks 
of those who stood nearest. 

“Land of mercy !” said Betsy with emphasis. 
“What impudence !” 

Soon the curious crowd was thinning, Betsy’s 
search was ended and Anne, having left her seat 
in the coach, watched at nearer view the disgorging 
of the cargo. 

Here Brooke came primed with a new sensation. 


94 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


This was nothing less than the tale of a fight which 
had occurred during the voyage between the mate 
of the vessel and a passenger. Anne’s eyes were 
very soft as he finished. 

“And who d’ye think,” he ended, “was this cham- 
pion? Why, the young Frenchman yonder that you 
crushed so mercilessly, Mistress Tillotson !” 

“And the redemptioner woman ?” asked Anne, with 
something like dread. 

“ ’Twas the wench he won from Burnaby Rolph !” 

“Oh!” The cadence was full of liquid self-re- 
proach. 

“Where are you going ?” Betsy asked as Anne rose. 
She did not answer, but walked quickly across the 
wharf to the spot where Armand stood. He made 
no movement as she came. 

“Monsieur . . ” she faltered and stopped. 

His hat was in his hand instantly and he was 
gravely deferential. 

“I wish to take back,” she went on, “my words 
of a while ago. I assure you they were not rudely 
meant. I — ” 

He stayed her with a gesture. “What am I that 
Mademoiselle should speak thus? I was brusque, 
unmannerly — ” 

“Ho, no !” 

“I forgot where I was — forgot that I had not 


THE TOSS OF A COIN 


95 


the joy of knowing her — forgot everything but what 
I saw in her face as she sat in the chariot. For I 
am a great magician, Mademoiselle ; I know all who 
are lovely and gracious of heart.” 

“I was wrong,” she said proudly. “And for this 
I ask your pardon. May — may I have the bond- 
servant ?” 

He smiled gaily now and bowed low to her. “To 
be treated with such pleasant surgery, all the world 
would be glad of wounds,” he cried. “You recom- 
pense me a thousand times !” 

He signed to the serving-woman who sat stolidly 
upon a near-by chest, and pointed from himself to 
Anne. She understood, and when Anne put her 
in charge of John-the-Baptist to take on ahead 
a-pillion, she went without question. 

Betsy watched this transaction open-mouthed. 

“Did you ever!” she gasped. “I wonder what 
mother will say to that!” 

Armand had stepped to position, hat under arm, 
at the coach door. “Mademoiselle will permit me 
to assist her?” he asked, and gave her the tips of 
his fingers. His eyes were bright on her face. 

On the step she stopped, half turned, a delicate 
flush coming to her cheek — a flush that deep- 
ened to damask at his look. She hesitated an in- 
stant as if about to speak, then suddenly entered. 


96 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


sat down, gave the word to the driver and was 
whirled away. The secretary stood looking after 
the retreating chariot. 

“A splendid creature/’ purred Brooke at his el- 
bow, “albeit you found her wintry.” 

“Wintry!” exclaimed the young man — “she who 
is made only of summer, its incense, its colors, its 
dreams. Yours is an enchanted land. Monsieur, 
and she its goddess.” 

“Egad! I’ll make a sonnet on that!” exclaimed 
Brooke. “Sink me, but it’s coming back!” The 
latter remark was applied to the chariot which had 
turned and was now approaching more slowly the 
spot where they stood. 

As it drew up, Anne leaned from the window. 
“Monsieur,” she called, “I had quite forgot to speak 
of the indenture.” 

He drew it from his pocket and held it out to her. 

“Such have to be conveyed, I make sure,” she 
said, looking at it doubtfully. ‘Your delicacy, sir, 
forbade you to set me right. We shall have to sign 
and witness a deed and what not, I suppose.” 

“ ’Tis a plain indenture,” said Brooke, peering. 

She drew it away sharply. “Alas! we women 
know so little of business. I bethink me my father 
will wish to receipt to you for it.” 

“Mademoiselle — ■” 


THE TOSS OF A COIN 


97 


“Aye, but he will. At any rate, you would not 
be so ungallant as to have me blamed, sir? Will 
you not ride to Gladden Hall with me ? ’Tis scarce 
a half-league away.” 

“Mademoiselle !” 

“Your father is in Williamsburg, Mistress,” ven» 
turned the exquisite. “I chanced to overhear him say 
this morning he would remain over at Colonel Byrd’s 
until to-morrow.” 

Anne frowned. “I fear you did not hear aright, 
sir,” she returned coldly. Then with an enchant- 
ing smile she opened the coach door and made room 
for the secretary beside her. “I await you. Mon- 
sieur,” she said, her eyes like fringed gentians. He 
bowed to her with a new light on his face, entered, 
and closed the door. 

“Home, Bashleigh,” she cried to the driver, and 
the heavy coach rolled away. 

“Wintry !” said the fop to himself with a chuckle. 
“Methinks report does the lady wrong.” 

Jarrat, meanwhile, had been sitting in the skip- 
per’s dingy cabin, — for Master Elves had now trans- 
ferred responsibility to the ship’s agent, — his face 
properly smoothed to good-fellowship, over a noggin 
of rum from the locker. He had long ago culti- 
vated a new affability with the master of the Two 


98 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Sisters. Now he had an errand, though he was 
somewhat long in coming to the point. 

“The Marquis de la Trouerie,” he said finally and 
in a purely casual way, as he smacked his lips. “It 
was nigh two months since that he died, if I re- 
member.” 

The mariner took down his log from the shelf 
and turning it with a hairy thumb, pushed it across 
the board. The other looked at it closely and laid 
the book open before him. Incidentally he filled up 
the glasses. “Knew you aught of his affairs in this 
Colony?” he queried. 

One might have noticed that the eyes opposite 
narrowed perceptibly. 

“Not I,” answered the skipper. “I hold to my 
own helm.” 

C “A close tongue,” vouchsafed Jarrat, “makes a 
wide purse.” 

The drift of this succinct remark was not lost 
upon his companion, who discreetly kept his eyes 
upon his glass. 

The speaker continued, dropping his voice and 
leaning on the table : “The marquis and I had some- 
what of business together although we never met. 
In fact, I made this voyage at his own request. 
Now, to be frank, the news of his death will not aid 
a mutual venture of ours here in Virginia, which, 


THE TOSS OF A COIN 


99 


for my part, has gone too far for backing. Zooks! 
A mortal pity to publish it !” 

There was interest and speculation in the narrow 
eyes, if nothing more. Something jingled. It may 
have been the visitor’s sword-knot, or a hand in a 
pocket. The skipper was not deaf. 

“The passengers ?” he hazarded. 

“They are off for the North to-day. Boston blab 
will not hurt me ; ’tis the Gazettes here I care about. 
As for the factors, they are bent on business. Our 
young Virginia wool-sack has gone to Pennsylvania. 
Pll risk him.” 

“There’s the marquis’s secretary.” 

Jarrat snapped his fingers. “He’ll be cheap. 
I know the breed. A leaf lost from a log is no 
great matter,” he continued slowly as though to 
himself. Again the jingle. The skipper cleared 
his throat. 

Jarrat’s hand slowly, very slowly, tore out the 
leaf, folded it and placed it in his pocket-book. 
Yellow disks passed across the table. 

“I’ll be keel-hauled if I see your game,” said the 
skipper. 

The other smiled. “I’ll be keel-hauled if I see 
why you should,” said he. 

Brooke was scarce done twisting his love-lock 
when Jarrat crossed the wharf from the ship hot 


100 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


from his bargain with the skipper. He made in- 
quiries concerning a young gentleman dressed in 
gray and by good luck hit upon an apprentice lad 
who told him he had carried the young gentleman’s 
chest to the Swan Tavern at which he had been di- 
rected to bespeak supper and lodging. 


CHAPTER VI 


TWO IN A CHARIOT 

For some time the two in the coach rode in silence. 
The way, when they had left the clustered shipping of 
the town behind them, wound along the reed-rimmed 
bank of the river where plethoric crows cawed to 
their mates. The afternoon had come with a vivid 
sky burning to a char on the horizon. The young 
secretary gazed out of the open window, and through 
it the wind came, sweet with the clean smell of dry 
grass. Anne stole a side glance from under droop- 
ing lids. 

“You are deeply occupied, Monsieur,” she said at 
length, with a lurking thread of sarcasm. “I should 
not marvel, since all Virginia lies just outside.” 

He threw her a smile that softened his clean-cut 
mouth and lightened his eyes. “All Virginia is not 
outside the window — for me, Mademoiselle.” 

With a woman, it is the new sensation which cap- 
tivates. Mistress Tillotson had been used enough 
101 


102 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


to pretty speeches — the beaux o£ half Yirginia had 
recited quatrains to her fan. Here was an unaccus- 
tomed subtlety. 

“Yet your eyes were there/’ she rejoined. “Had 
your thought fled still farther ? Over-sea, may- 
hap ?” 

He met her look full-eyed. “Shall I tell you of 
what I was thinking? I have seen many fair ladies 
in my own land — gracious and kind belike — but few 
whose charity could reach to an object so far beneath 
them as a bondwoman; fewer yet whose gracious- 
ness would lead them to sue for pardon from a 
stranger — like me.” 

“I,” she answered more lightly, “was thinking of 
how the frost has set the woods afire. Saw you 
ever such copper-reds and russet-golds? And those 
wedges of pink rock — they have the look of raspber- 
ries crushed in curdled milk. God is spendthrift 
of His hues.” 

The country through which they passed was hung 
with the marvelous colors which a Virginian au- 
tumn lavishes so prodigally. There was the ma- 
roon of the wild rose-stalk, the ripe-brown seams of 
butternut bark, and the shifting tints the sun lends 
the frosted alder; the gray lichen and bronze fir 
splotched with scarlet creeper and stippled mosses 
like saffron butterflies. Here and there showed the 


TWO IN A CHARIOT 


103 


splash of a bluebird’s wing or the vermilion crest 
of a king-fisher. 

"It is very fair/’ he said, “as it should be.” 

Again a silence fell while the road swung across 
forest stretches, under springing roofs through 
which the sky swam in dazzles. 

At last she spoke demurely: 

“And of what else were you thinking, Monsieur ?” 

“I was thinking what you are most like. Some 
ladies are like snow-mountains that stand very far 
off — white and beautiful, but cold — so cold you 
can not warm them, and so high. Some are like 
blossoms, sweet and perfumed, made for only a nose- 
gay in the evening; when the sun is hot they wither. 
Some are like a song that one hears and thinks 
lovely — hums it a while and forgets.” 

“And which of these am I, sir?” 

“You are like a sword — slim and shining and 
straight and yet delicate. It took centuries to make 
the sword. Mademoiselle. It will bend, bend, but 
not break. It is sharp and cold to all the world 
save one — the one who wears it at his side. But to 
his touch it becomes alive to ward him harm, to 
guard his life, to keep his honor.” 

“An we were truly swords,” she flashed “ — we 
ladies of Virginia — there were less of bitterness in 
this fair Colony of ours.” 


104 


HEAETS COUKAGEOTJS 


“So the sword has the temper/’ he cried, his eyes 
kindling. “It is not for ornament alone! And 
these troubles of the Colonies— they strike so deeply 
then? Do even the ladies of a land such as this 
feel the sting?” 

She gazed out toward the low-knobbed hills 
limned against the deepening sky, her elbow on the 
window sill, her chin in her gloved hand, silent. 
Above them, in sun-stained air, shreds of tom clouds 
folded away like dreams. From near-by came the 
startled flutter of field larks and the rustle of rip- 
ening corn. 

The road curved quickly and lurched into a pine 
forest, where the day filmed to twilight and the 
hoofs fell noiselessly into a carpet of brown needles. 
It was a pleasant way, full of mingled odors, all 
strangely pure and agreeable, where clamorous wood- 
things piped to a musical silence. 

“ ’Tis not all Virginia after all that one sees here. 
Monsieur,” she said slowly, after a time. “Far to 
the west of us is a vast region, raw, full-veined and 
of scattered tenants. There are great mountain 
peaks and ravines, wastes waiting seed and hoe, 
plateaus and woodlands where the musket and the 
ax are never silent. Deer run in the brake. 
Wolves race along the ridges. There strong men 
have lived and toiled and fought back the savages 


TWO m A CHARIOT 


105 


and cleared themselvr Hornes. Their children 
have grown up unyielding like the granite in the 
mountain’s heart, untrameled like its torrents. 
And this life amid the silences has taught them a 
justice that may not be bought, a strength that 
knows neither fear nor favor. The region you see 
here. Monsieur, to this great weave I speak of is but 
the raveled edge. 

“Here broad rivers run brackish with tide-water, 
and ships lie at the wharves. They bring to our 
manor-houses all of luxury and refinement which 
Virginia tobacco can buy. And here the planters, 
(for Virginia was first settled by gentlemen, Mon- 
sieur,) choose to put on courtliness and dress in gold- 
lace and make a bit of London for themselves on the 
edge of the wilderness. 

“Just beyond those hills, to the southward, is 
Williamsburg, the capital they have built. It has 
a college and a court. There the cocks are ever 
fighting, the horses are ever running, the fiddles are 
ever playing, and there in his palace sits the royal 
governor his Majesty is pleased to put over his Col- 
onials, levying on their leaf and sneering at their 
buckskins/’ 

“The Earl of Dunmore?” 

“Aye, my Lord the earl. Think you he knows 
one whit more of this Virginia than does the king, 


106 


HEAKTS COUKAGEOUS 


a thousand leagues away? He drinks in his palace 
and drives his white horses and bullies his bur- 
gesses — the representatives whom the people have 
elected. They must pleasure him or he dissolves 
them. The king has forgot that the Virginians are 
Englishmen, and that Englishmen love freedom.” 


“And Englishwomen, too,” he said. 

“We can do little,” she went on. “We wear no 
swords. All we can do is to hope and to wait.” 

“Little!” There was a thrill in his tone. “Lit- 
tle! You call such a hope — such a feeling small? 
You think it valueless or weak? Ah, Mademoi- 
selle! Kijow you what makes a lady adorable to 
a man’s heart? What makes him worship her? It 
is that she inspires him — that is it! Not to dress 
for her, or bow or sing her little songs. But to toil, 
to struggle, to fight, to die maybe — something 
high like the stars. Man has a want for two things 
— a cause to fight for first, and then — then a one, 
a perfect one, a loved face, to wait and smile on 
him when he has won. 

“With this a man could do miracles! Ah, it 
could make of a poor nobody a king, an emperor! 
I, even I, Mademoiselle, a stranger from another 
land, I could fight so well for these great things, for 
this Virginia of yours, if I — if I — ” 

He paused. There was a tense moment. 


TWO IJS A CHARIOT 


107 


Then the air filled itself with a long, dull sigh, 
and on its train came a sudden snapping of dead 
boughs, an un jointed, cracking report, and both 
looked up startled. 

A strange, far-away circumstance had had part 
in this. Indians had not been used to fell trees 
as did their white conquerors. Instead, they cut 
deep rings into the bark and let nature be ax- 
man. These trunks fell when dry-rot had done its 
work, sometimes in storms, often when no wind 
stirred, crashing in a forested silence. A quarter 
century before, perhaps, a Mattapony brave had thus 
girdled a great pine with his tomahawk; and it was 
this dead tree, its limbs now white as bleached wolf- 
bones, which was now, after its time, leaning to its 
fall from the roadside. 

A shriek burst from Anne’s lips as she saw the 
toppling bulk through the window, and she started 
to her feet. Simultaneously came a howl of terror 
from Rashleigh and a leaping jerk from the horses 
as he tried to lash them to safety. 

There was an instant when the huge bole seemed 
to hang motionless in the air above them — an in- 
stant in which Anne frenziedly wrenched open the 
door and made as if to leap out. The same in- 
stant Armand seized her, dragged her back and 


108 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


threw himself and her against the rear wall of the 
chariot. 

She struggled, but he forced her back and held 
her, as the groaning mass came to earth with a 
crash that rocked the ground. 

Anne, conscious even in her ecstasy of fright of 
a sense of safety in his arms, felt the body of the 
coach crush like an egg-shell. She had hidden her 
face on his breast and shut her eyes, waiting the 
end. The whole world was a splinter of glass, a 
ripping of boarding, a sickening jumble of thuds, 
through which stabbed the agonized squeals of the 
horses. 

Then there was stillness, broken by Rashleigh’s 
sobbing scream — 

“De good Lawd, Mis’ Anne ! De good Lawd . . 
is yo’ daid ?” 

She opened her eyes and looked up. The riven 
trunk lay right athwart the forward cushions, 
where it had crashed its way through. A great 
gnarled limb, broken off, thrust itself a yard from 
her face and through the jagged edges of the top 
she saw the far foliage swaying. Armand’s face 
bent above her. It was white and strained with 
an anguish that was slipping away, but it was calm. 

Rashleigh’s head appeared at the wrecked win- 
dow, his features blue-black with fear. 


TWO IN A CHAKIOT 


109 


“Bress Gord!” he stammered, his grizzled fore- 
lock working. “Bress His name ! So yo 5 ain* hurt, 
honey? Den I gwineter ketch de hosses Tore dey 
scare missus to defM” 

The head withdrew, and Anne tried to smile up 
at Armand. 

“We are safe,” she said, speaking slowly like a 
child. “ I know. ? Twas — so sudden. Let me — ■ 
wait a moment.” She closed her eyes again, sick 
and faint in the reaction. 

He did not speak at once, but she felt his arms, 
which were under and around her, shake with a 
little tremor and draw her closer. 

“Suppose,” she breathed, her eyes still closed, 
“suppose it had struck nearer?” 

“We should not have felt it A quick death and 
merciful.” 

She shuddered. 

“They would have found us — so,” he said with 
an under-breath. 

She lifted her head at this and started, the color 
coming back to her lips. “Help me out.” 

Stooping under the splintered door-frame, he 
assisted her to the ground. It was a hurly of 
broken branches, sprangling spokes, thrusting 
springs and distorted fragments of wood. A 


110 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 




snapped limb a foot in thickness lay with its end 
upon the bent and twisted step. 

“Had I leaped, it would have struck me!” 

“Yes,” he answered. 

“So swift and terrible !” she said, her voice catch- 
ing. “Like a bolt from a cloud; like the judgment. 
That moment . . I would not live it again for 

worlds !” 

He spoke with a flame in his cheeks. “And I 
— I would I might ! Ah, I would endure all agonies 
for that moment again, that moment when — ” 

“Monsieur !” 

He stopped at the indignation in her tone. 

“Let us go,” she said. “Gladden Hall is just be- 
hind these pines.” 

“I beg you — ■” 

“Bethink, sir,” she added coldly, “that so late 
as. yesterday I had never seen you!” 

“So late as yesterday!” he cried. “To measure 
all things by the hands of the clock! What has 
time to do with the feeling of the heart? Is death 
all that comes suddenly, unexpectedly? Are there 
blo sweeter things that come as swiftly ? Ah, a man 
can live a year in an hour, Mademoiselle — a life- 
time within one little day! Yesterday, you say? 
Mademoiselle, yesterday for me were only dim 
waters, and gray sky; now there are flowers and 


TWO IH A CHARIOT 


111 


birds and laughter and all glad things. Shall 1 
tell you what has changed it all? The moment 
you spoke to me on the wharf — the hour we have 
ridden side by side along the fields — most of all, 
Mademoiselle, the moment you will not have me 
tell you of — that one moment I lived, when death 
came falling out of the sky upon us — when you 
cried out — when — ■” 

“Stop!” she protested, her hands to her red 
cheeks. 

“When your face was on my shoulder — I felt 
your breath! You clung to me — to me — you, the 
fairest lady God has made! My arms were around 
you.” 

“Oh!” she gasped. “No more! You have no 
right — ” 

“Right?” 

“Ho!” she cried stormily, her breast rising and 
falling. “Ho! You presume upon a danger into 
which fate thrust me without my wish. Why, we 
have but ridden a half league; I know not even 
your name ! Who are you to speak thus to me ?” 

“Who am I?” repeated the young man slowly, 
the rich color dyeing his face. “I am — only a 
Frenchman, Mademoiselle. Only a man who gazed 
upon your face in a crowd and whom — whom 
you asked to ride beside you in the coach.” 


112 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


His tone had fallen. "Is it his fault, Mademoi* 
selle, if his custom is not the custom of your land 
— if he knows not to repress — if he must say what 
he feels ?” He finished very low. "Is it his fault 
that he can not forget that your face hid itself upon 
his breast . . for one little moment here in the 
forest ?” 

She was alternately flushing and paling and Her 
eyes were shining. "You must not! Yon must 
not !” she cried out with softer voice. 

With the words she started walking rapidly, has- 
tening, without glancing at him. The dimness of 
the interlaced branches overhead parted, the trees 
stood sparser. Just ahead a leafy arch let in the 
fading sunlight and a view of yellow stubble, and 
beyond this showed a broad gateway — twin brick 
pillars crested with martlets — opening on a wind- 
ing road to a great house that looked a many-win- 
dowed welcome. 

It sat snuggled in elms, on a hill from whose 
crest a terraced lawn fell softly into the arms of 
the shining, twisted river — a southern home in its 
high days, its dairy, meat-house, ice-house and 
granaries all dazzling white against the blue and 
olive of sky and wood. Spacious offices stood to 
the left and wide negro quarters squatted at some 
distance behind it. Near-by a tiny creek sparkled 


TWO IH A CHAKIOT 


113 


down to wash a tangle of islands. From adjacent 
fields came the piping whistle of partridges in grass. 

Just before the gateway the young man’s voice 
caught her. “For the sake of that one moment, 
Mademoiselle . . ” he said huskily. 

She paused — looked back — and held out her hand. 
He dropped upon one knee and touched his lips to 
her fingers. 

“I am glad I owe my life to you/’ she said softly. 

Gazing at him uncertainly an instant, she hesi- 
tated, then turned and ran rapidly up the winding 
drive. Her hound lifted his shag-head from 
the columned porch and came leaping down to meet 
her, while his whine drew Mammy Evaline peering 
from the kitchen door, her weather-beaten face di- 
lating into a smile. 

“Lawd, dar come mammy’s honey-chile safe an’ 
soun’!” she cried to Mrs. Tillotson, who came 
hastily to the steps and waved her hand at the girl’s 
fluttering signal. 

“Down, Sweetlips! Down!” cried Anne, as the 
hound leaped against her. She stopped, bethinking 
herself of the indenture. 

She ran back to the gateway, but the young 
Frenchman was not to be seen. As she stood peer- 
ing into the pines, the breeze went playing with 
some torn bits of paper, scattered in the ruts. She 


114 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


picked up several fragments and strove to decipher 
them: “which term the said bond-servant faithfully 
shall serve” . . . “does covenant with the said 
Louis Armand, holder,” she read. 

Then she caught her breath, and, forbearing to 
glance in the direction of the forest road, walked 
toward the anxious figure on the porch of the great 
house. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE MAKING OE A MAKQUIS 

In the Swan Tavern, which lifted its yellow Hol- 
land-brick front and peaked shingle roof not far 
from the York-town river-front, the candles had been 
early lighted that night. There, as day fainted out, 
supping at his ease at a table in the long parlor, 
sat a man of middle age, whose effrontery and inso- 
lence had long ago earned him cordial hatred 
throughout Williamsburg. He was Captain Foy, 
aide to Governor Dunmore. 

He looked up as another guest entered, and 
dropped his knife clattering. 

“Jarrat \” he cried. “I thought you were in 
London. " 

“So I was, so I was, but I am returned to-day,” 
Jarrat answered easily. “How goes it at Williams- 
burg, Captain Foy ? And how does Governor Dun- 
more with that ant-hill of disloyalty ?” 

“He is away with the troops to quell the Indians 
115 


116 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


on the Pennsylvania boundary. He will not see 
Williamsburg again before November. You stayed 
not long abroad. I heard you were gone for a year 
of off-duty pleasuring.” 

“These Virginias get in the blood.” Jarrat simu- 
lated a sigh. “X have lost the old-land love, I fear.” 

He did not see fit to tell the true reason of his 
sea voyage, or that he had been more in Paris than 
in London. He was a more subtle servant of Dun- 
more’s than the governor’s aide, who dreamed he 
knew all of the great man’s mind. 

“What has happened since I left. Captain?” he 
finished. 

The other got up, pulled the door to carefully and 
came back. “Jarrat, I wonder if I shall ever see 
you royal governor of this Colony you love so 
well.” 

Jarrat had risen with an exclamation. 

“Sit down, man,” said Foy. “ ’Ods bods ! ’Tis a 
fair enough ambition. Why not? You are young, 
and you can do much yet for Lord Dunmore. The 
king rewards his servants. Damme, I like you the 
better for aiming high ! Stranger things have hap- 
pened. Methinks Mistress Tillotson would not 
frown so upon a royal governor, eh?” 

Jarrat sat down again. It is a harrowing mo- 
ment when one’s most secret thought is laid bare 


THE MAKING OF A MARQUIS 117 

at a slash. He waited to hear what the other might 
say. 

"Affairs are awry here/* Foy continued, "and I 
must overtake the governor with advices. Mean- 
while there is an important matter I intend to tell 
you. I judge I can speak plain. You may be able 
to assist in a delicate undertaking, and you can rest 
easy Dunmore will not be ungrateful. Nor will the 
king, neither.” 

A keenness came into Jarrat’s face. "Say on,” 
he said. 

"Very well. Here it is in a nut-shell. As you 
perchance know, Lord Stormont in Paris has been 
at much pains to keep informed of the feeling in 
the French court. He has lately reported a grow- 
ing danger. That rascally son of a tinker, Beau- 
marchais, whose schemes so tickled the fancy of the 
old king, has been buzzing about Louis the Sixteenth 
to some purpose. De Yergennes, his dog of a coun- 
cillor, was always itching to comfort the Colonies. 
Well, the matter has come to a head and France’s 
aid is in a fair way to be pledged in the near fu- 
ture to the Colonies. Egad, Jarrat, an the rebels’ 
Congress knew all that is in the wind at Ver- 
sailles, they would split themselves with joy !” 

"I warrant,” said the listener, non-committal. 

"Louis,” pursued Foy, "is pretty well assured of 


118 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


affairs in the north, thanks to that renegade Frank- 
lin, bnt as to the Virginias, he is not so certain. 
So he is sending over one of his noble popinjays to 
see for him and report. ’Twas rumored in Paris 
that the envoy was to be the Marquis de la 
Trouerie.” 

“I have heard of the gentleman,” said Jarrat 
with careful deliberation; “another young poppet 
of Marie Antoinette’s, and a worse republican than 
Beaumarchais. And you think he will report that 
Virginia is ripe for insurrection?” 

“Think! Why, the whole Colony is a seethe of 
it. To be sure he will. Trust the courtier to 
smooth the king the way he would be smoothed.” 

“When does the gentleman arrive?” 

“A fortnight since word came hither by the 
Royal George that he was soon to take ship.” 

Jarrat smiled beneath his hand. Knowing him- 
self so close to the governor’s confidence, he could 
afford to be amused. Moreover, he had had more 
than one meeting while abroad with Lord Stor- 
mont in regard to this same matter. Foy’s hang- 
man’s humor, however, made him a favorite with 
Lord Dunmore, and it was still worth Jarrat’s 
while to cultivate him. 

“I am flattered that you confide in me,” he said. 


THE MAKING OF A MARQUIS 119 


“But what will you do with him when he comes? 
You can not seize his person?” 

“Why not?” cried Foy pettishly. “There’s more 
to his coming than that, Jarrat. He will report 
‘aye’ to this venture of the king’s. Well, Louis 
needs no further messenger. He will straightway 
make the marquis his envoy. And think you the 
visitor need be let deliver that message? By the 
fiend, no ! Seize his person, eh ? We shall see, 
Jarrat! The earl knows his muttons. Meanwhile, 
this marquis must be watched for. We must know 
where to put a finger on him. The lower ports are 
well under espionage. But some of us must watch 
here at York-town. ’Tis what I want you to do, 
Jarrat. Gad’s life! ’Tis too delicate a matter to 
entrust to any boggier.” 

“Again you flatter me.” Jarrat had been study- 
ing Foy through half-shut eyes; now he opened 
them. 

“Enough, Captain; I accept the commission. I 
take it upon myself to welcome the noble sojourner 
should he land here. Who knows, I might even 
make friends with him.” 

“Good!” Foy’s look wore relief. “I can leave 
to-morrow for Winchester, then, and shall tell Lord 
Dunmore that I have confided in you.” 


120 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“Tell Ids Excellency,” Jarrat responded as tlie 
other rose, “that I shall keep a sharp eye for the 
marquis. From the moment he lands, I shall be 
his shadow. A pleasant journey. Captain. Leave 
everything to me.” 

“And now,” said Foy, “for a bottle of old sherry.” 

Jarrat went to the yard to see him go, and when 
he had disappeared, turned his eye to a narrow, 
blank window under the shingle roof. 

“Louis will send another messenger when the 
news reaches France. When it reaches France,” he 
muttered. Then, more slowly — “When it reaches 
France !” 

He stood musing a moment, turned and entered 
the door. 

The radiant Frenchman that evening, returning 
to the Swan afoot through the late dusk-fall, went 
up the tavern stair to find that the door of his 
chamber stood ajar. An exclamation of surprise 
escaped him; he mounted quickly and went in. 

Jarrat sat there by the little table, waiting. 

“Ah!” said the secretary. His eye darted swift- 
ly to his chest in the corner. Then he crossed the 
room and tried the lid. It had not been opened. 

“I am no common thief, curse it!” spat out Jar- 
rat. 


THE MAKING OF A MARQUIS 131 


“Nor observed Armand with a rising inflection, 
“Monsieur will pardon me. I did not know.” He 
sat down composedly. “To what do I owe this 
pleasure ?” tentatively. 

Jarrat leaned elbows on the table and regarded 
him. “You are no fool,” he said at length. “All 
the better.” 

Monsieur Armand wore a look of polite inquiry. 

“My word for it,” said Jarrat suddenly. “There 
are richer paymasters than Louis the Sixteenth.” 

The other fronted him fiercely, menacingly. 
“What mean you?” he cried. 

Jarrat laughed. “You see that I know what was 
the marquis’s business in the Colonies.” 

He went and closed the door. 

“Now,” he said, returning, “Monsieur Armand, 
master secretary, clerk of a dead master, I have a 
proposition to make to you.” 

“And if,” said the young foreigner slowly, a 
half-hour later, looking across into the ferret eyes, 
“if I do this — what you call it? — masquerade — 
If I, the humble secretary, the clerk, as you have 
said it, become changed for the purposes of my 
Lord the earl, to the courtier, the noble ...” 

He paused. They were sitting at ease now, and 
on Jarrat’s face satisfaction was spread thinly, like 


122 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


oil. The ingratiating mood became him and his 
companion’s distrustful look had vanished into 
something that smacked more of • friendliness. 

“Think you not/’ the latter finished, “that these 
Virginians will know the difference?” 

“’Sblood!” scoffed Jarrat. “What know they 
here in the desert of French nobles? Uo mor§ 
than my Lord Bishop of London’s scullery maid!” 

An expression of curious intentness lurked in 
Armand’s face. He was silent, searching the other 
with half-smiling gaze. 

“And the life. Like you balls and dances with 
the quality? You shall be sought after. Would 
you set the fashions for the gallants? They will 
jostle the lackeys to hob with you. Gad’s life! 
The Colonials are cubs at bootlicking a lord! The 
fat of the land, I tell you — rides, hunts, dances, 
wenches — and a merry season.” 

The secretary’s eyes sparkled. “You think I 
would do it well?” he asked naively. “Ah, you 
never saw my master. He was a real nobleman. 
He was born so. One can not learn it, Monsieur. 
It is in the blood. But I? I? I have not the 
ton , the address?” He looked inquiringly at the 
other. ' 

“Pshaw!” Jarrat said. “I suppose your master 
was fine enough, but fine feathers will do it. 


THE MAKING OF A MARQUIS 123 


There’s not one of them will scent the difference. 
I know them!” 

Monsieur Armand’s lids were drooped, his face 
thoughtful. 

“You wish me,” he reflected slowly, “to do two 
things. My master, as you have guessed — he was 
to be the eye of the king of France in the Vir- 
ginias. Very good. You want me to be that eye. 
Only I shall see things always bad for the Whigs, 
eh? And you would have me write such letters 
as you shall frame — but in my master’s hand, so 
Louis shall be fooled — so he shall think the Vir- 
ginias loyal to the English crown — so he shall no 
longer plan to offer the aid of France.” 

“Sooth,” applauded Jarrat, “it couldn’t be 
plainer. You have written to your master’s hand 
and should know his signature. Neither De Ver- 
gennes nor Beaumarchais need be the wiser, and 
be sure no one in the Colonies will be.” 

“And if, in spite of what were written him, this 
foolish king should still wish to comfort?” 

“Why, then the message he sends to his dear 
marquis will come safe to you and we shall chuckle 
over it in our closets. But small chance of that. 
The king leaned upon your master. A dozen letters 
of the proper complexion and he will forget he evee 
dreamed of fleets a-sailing westward.” 


124 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“You have the true finesse. Monsieur le Capi- 
taine,” Monsieur Armand said gravely. “Permit me 
to congratulate you!” 

“The reward is a tidy one,” — Jarrat licked the 
words lingeringly. “’Twould take you longer to 
earn a commission in your own country.” 

“In France, to be an officer in the army, one must 
prove descent from a family ennobled for at least 
one hundred years.” 

“Nor are doubloons to be plucked from the bushes 
by any stool-pigeon.” 

“It is not too much, Monsieur,” the Frenchman 
interposed, “because you pay me for what I know 
of my master — habits, speech, writings, seal, all. 
I can write so that the king of France will never know 
he is dead — never, till I choose. He will send no 
other, no ! Hot till he has found it out But when 
he does — what then? Shall I escape his wrath? 
Shall I not be an alien — an exile from my 
country ?” 

Jarrat bent toward him and spoke smilingly in 
the arrogance of full blood: 

“Is there no compensation even for that? Look 
you! There be bright eyes in the middle planta- 
tion; bright eyes, and red lips and little waists and 
soft ways. There are slender fingers to be kissed, 
and these fingers oft hold purse-strings. Love is 


THE MAKING OF A MARQUIS 125 


a pretty game, and, by benefit of clergy, *tis some- 
times wed with broad plantations that bring golden 
guineas across the water.” 

He laughed at the look the other gave him. 
“Zooks!” he cried. “Why not? Think you the 
proudest of them all would not blush to be wooed 
by a noble. There are few 'my Lords* in the val- 
leys.” 

Monsieur Armand sprang up, pushed the shutters 
of the window wide and leaned out, drawing a deep, 
long breath. Dark was come down over a moon- 
less vast flooded with waves of bishop’s-purple, to 
which trees lent a deeper mystery of shadow. 
When he turned, his face was tender, his eyes lu- 
minous. 

“Virginia ladies,” Jarrat continued, “are as proud 
as any court dames. They have the St. James 
sniff for the commoner. But *tis yours to choose 
from them all, an you use your wit.** 

“Mine to choose . . ** the young foreigner said 

as if to himself. “Mine to choose !** He looked out 
again into the dark, while his tempter smiled dis- 
creetly behind him. “But to win — is it always to 
keep, Monsieur? Some time — some time the truth 
must come to light. She whom I would win must 
love me. Would she love me then?” He spoke low, 
rather to the outer silence than to the other. 


126 


HEAETS COTJEAGEOUS 


“Pooh ! When a woman has once wed, think you 
It matters whether her husband be a hero or * 
rogue? When the game is over, the heifer is in 
the stall, and there’s the commission to console 
her. Bethink, too, that the game is honored by 
the governor’s approval. ’Tis a crown service, 
done at the solicitation of the royal governor. We 
shall presently set out for Winchester, where he 
lies with the troops. He shall guarantee this be- 
times there. What say you?” Jarrat’s voice was 
contemptuous. 

Monsieur Armand turned from the darkness, his 
look suddenly changed. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I 
will do it.” 

His visitor rose with a covert twist to his lips. 
“You have decided well,” he said. “You have the 
assurance to succeed, too! To flutter the farthin- 
gales you will need money, of course.” 

“Money?” the other smiled. “And me the Mar- 
quis de la Trouerie? Talk of money between gen- 
tlemen? Plenty of time for that — afterward.” 

“Better and better,” said Jarrat, the old sneer 
returning now that the game was won. “It be- 
speaks good faith. I hope you shared your mas- 
ter’s gold with our honest skipper Elves? But 
you will need brave clothes. *Tis not too much 
you look like a marquis at present.” 


THE MAKING OF A MARQUIS 127 


Monsieur Armand laid his finger on his lip laugh- 
ingly. “Ah, that is my secret. Clothes ?” He 
crossed to the chest, unlocked it with a key from his 
pocket, threw it open and began with rapidity to take 
out coats, waistcoats, short-clothes — all of beautiful 
texture and heavy with lace. 

“Clever robber !” said J arrat admiringly under 
his breath. “A neat plucking of a useless cadaver.” 

The secretary laughed gaily as he took out 
these, with a ribbon of foreign orders, and a sword. 

“Clothes?” said he again. “Let me see which 
I shall wear!” He was lifting the exquisite gar- 
ments. “I beg Monsieur will turn his head away 
for one moment. Comme q a!” 

He called to imaginary body-servants : “Al- 
phonse ! My waistcoat ! The flowered one — that is 
right. Now, my coat. Y’l a! My sword belt, 
Pierre . . . So ! The fairest lady in the 
world would be pleased with that. Now Monsieur 
le Capitaine!” 

Jarrat, looking around, could scarce repress a 
cry. The gray-coated figure was no more. In its 
stead a vision invested in pale-rose satin, with gold 
chain, jeweled and smiling, stood before him. 

The secretary raised the sword and gave Jafrat 
the fencer’s salute. 

“Louis Armand is gone away. Monsieur,” he 


128 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


said, lifting eloquent shoulders. “Henceforth be- 
hold in me. Monsieur le Marquis de la Trouerie, 
Noble of France, Messenger of Louis the Sixteenth l” 


CHAPTER VIII 


PLEDGE YOU A BRAVE MAH’ 

On a hazy afternoon following Jarrat’s stroke of 
diplomacy, a Berlin chaise, in lien of the ruined 
chariot, bearing Mrs. Tillotson and Mistress Anne 
on a visit to Berkeley, drew through Ashby’s Gap, 
along slopes spotted with clumps of lilac and golden- 
red. 

Francis Byrd rode beside the window, for he was 
to join Lord Dunmore at Winchester whither the 
governor, in a burly fit of rage at his recalcitrant 
burgesses, had betaken himself to await the gather- 
ing of troops from the northern counties for the 
expedition against the restless Shawanee Indians on 
the Scioto River. 

They had met but few travelers of quality so far 
to the westward — for the most part wandering petty 
chapmen or perhaps a Palatinate trader coming from 
Pennsylvania. These latter drove teams of six or 
eight horses wearing jingling bells and their huge 
Conestoga wagons were loaded with plow-irons and 
with salt, lead and gunpowder for the lower settlers. 

129 


130 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


At the notched summit Byrd rose in his stirrups. 

“The Shennando, Anne !” he cried. 

Below, where the unbroke sunshine spun its web, 
lay a gold valley clasped in hills. The near moun- 
tain walls stood all matted with burnished leaves 
of wild ivy and bloom of chamoedaphne, its white 
cup-shapes stained with purplish red. In the 
wooded bottom the river shivered with the tumbling 
foam of steep torrents and went slipping soapily 
over ledges and between wild acres of mottled syca- 
more, of drooped willow and of birch. The sun, as 
they rode, became dull saffron-gold between the over- 
lapped wedges of crimsoning hills. 

“Poor dear !” sighed Anne, as an extra heavy jolt 
brought lamentation from her nerve-racked compan- 
ion. “We shall soon be there, aunt Mildred; Win- 
chester is just beyond the next forest.” 

“IPs been just beyond the next forest for three 
hours,” moaned the lady. “The colonel really must 
have new springs put to the chaise. This road is 
barbarous !” 

“There is Winchester,” Anne exclaimed, joyfully. 
“I see the flag on the fort.” 

This, a great square fortification with four bas- 
tions — the stockade built by Colonel Washington 
before the reduction of Duquesne — was gone much 
to ruin. It sat on the town’s edge with generous 


I PLEDGE YOU A BRAVE MAN 131 


barracks rearing above the walls and soldiery 
grouped before the entrance. Here Byrd left them 
to report his arrival, and the two ladies rode to the 
town ordinary. 

They descended to find the long parlor thickly 
set with guests and passed quickly through the hall 
to the inn-yard, waiting disposition of their lug- 
gage. 

“The place is overfull it seems/’ Mrs. Tillot- 
son said to the landlord. 

“Oons!” he answered. “There are a plenty of 
beds, though nigh all my tankards are kept well in 
use. ’Tis the soldiery at the fort draws them — a 
good thing for the King’s Arms. The Indians may 
go a-scalping as oft as they will.” 

“They are all king’s men within?” asked Anne. 

“Aye — a proof of my loyalty. These be times,” he 
added, scratching his grizzle head as he went in, 
“when ’tis hard to choose betwixt old and new 
things, with the Whigs so hot. As for me, though, 
methinks the old will outlast my time.” 

“Aunt Mildred,” called Anne, delightedly, “look! 
There is my Lord Fairfax’s chariot!” 

It stood under the wide shed, huge and ungainly. 
Anne went to it and patted the dark leather and 
laid her young cheek against the purple cushions. 

“He is here, then,” she cried; “I wonder if we 


132 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


could see him.” Drawing Mrs. Tillotson after her, 
she passed to the wide low window and peered within. 
It was flung half open and through it came glassy 
tinkles and a babble of talk. 

Colonial costumes were sown through the long 
room and here and there were royal uniforms, fla- 
grantly crimson. Cocked hats and great-coats lay 
about on the chairs and riding-whips were scattered 
on the tables. 

Opposite them, against the farther wall, Burnaby 
Rolph of Westham sat squat in his oak chair where 
the candles glinted on his gold lace, stirring with 
his dress-sword a punch of Jamaica rum in a great 
bowl. Beside him, his arm' flung carelessly back, 
lounged Captain Foy. How the spirit was in his 
mottled, sensual face, and it seemed to cloak a devil 
in scarlet. 

The girl shrank back instinctively, and held her 
aunt’s arm more closely. Then she turned her eyes 
over the assembly. 

“Mistress Anne !” exclaimed a voice behind her. 

“Oh,” she cried, turning, “Mr. Henry ! How 
good it is to see you.” 

He took her hand and bowed to Mrs. Tillotson. 

“It seems as if we had not seen you for a year,” 
Anne continued, looking up into his sallow face and 


I PLEDGE YOU A BRAVE MAE* 133 


then, with a hint of approval, at his dark wig and 
suit of minister’s gray. 

He saw her glance and smiled a little quizzically. 
“I am being fast spoiled,” he said. “I have a plenty 
of coats good enough for me, yet once I go to the 
Congress I must get a new one to please the eye of 
other folk. I am on my way back from Philadelphia 
now.” 

“Are you lodged at the King’s Arms?” asked the 
elder lady. 

“At the Three Rams. Methinks the royal tang 
here about is a hit strong for me. I have a scent 
for it like a beagle for a porcupine.” 

“Lord Fairfax is here,” said Anne, “but he has 
not yet seen us. We shall surprise him.” She 
clapped her hands together softly. “I wonder how 
he will look! We were playing eaves-dropper just 
now, aunt Mildred and I, only to steal a view of 
him. Is it very dreadful ? Come with us and look.” 

“I shall leave her to you, Mr. Henry,” said Mrs. 
Tillotson. “The chests are in, so be not long, Anne ; 
I shall wait in our chamber.” 

As they crossed to the window, Anne stopped and 
looked at him questioningly : 

“What of the Congress?” she asked. Her voice 
was sharp and eager. 


134 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


He shook his head a little sadly, his brows together 
over his deep-sunk eyes. “’Tis not the time yet. 
The Assembly is too young. They fear to take a 
step in the dark. It is the blind leading the blind/’ 
he said, a little bitterly. “There is no open eye. 
Stay — there is one. He offered them a thousand 
men-at-arms.” 

“Colonel Washington !” she said under her breath. 

“Aye, Colonel Washington. The best soldier in 
America to-day. The only one who sees! For the 
others, it is temporize — temporize — wait the king’s 
better humor — Parson Duche, the rankest Tory of 
them all, opening the session with prayer! 

“Why, a Philadelphia delegate named Galloway 
spoke for a new plan of reconciliation, with close 
allegiance, an American Legislature and a president- 
general appointed by the king. It came nigh to 
stampeding the whole Convention. They see only 
war and the ravage of our towns — not one rood 
beyond that. They see not that the time and peo- 
ple are ripe for it. They see not that such a war 
can not be fought alone — that we shall, we must 
have help from Europe ! That we must win ! 

“Oh,” he said with sudden passion, his eyes burn- 
ing like coals, “of such stuff is our Congress made ! 
A multitude of counsellors and no leader. The 
sacrifice laid waiting, but no fire!” 


I PLEDGE YOU A BRAVE MAN 135 


Anne came closer to him, her fine face flashing. 

“But this is not the last time,” she said. “The 
Congress will meet again. When it does, Virginia 
should lead them. The Colonies must look to us, 
if it comes to worst. You say we have the best 
soldier. So shall we have the best regiments. Vir- 
ginia, alone of' all the rest, was settled by a single 
people. ’Tis held by gentlemen, and gentlemen fight 
best !” She put out her hand and laid it on his arm. 
“You can be the leader,” she said. “You can be the 
fire !” 

Thereafter neither spoke for a moment. From 
the stables a horse whinnied softly and a gust of 
laughter and the sound of a falling ale-pot came 
from the crowded parlor. 

Then they moved forward and stood by the open 
window. 

“I see Lord Fairfax,” whispered Anne. “There 
by the door.” 

The old nobleman whom her smiling eyes 
sought out, sat quietly apart, his sword across his 
knees, with his body-servant standing behind him. 
His near-sighted glances, sent squinting, searched 
the assembly with a lurking distrust. They were 
king’s men, truly, but not gentle like those of his 
own time. He turned his face toward Foy, as the 


136 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


latter, pounding the table with his sword, suddenly 
spoke up loudly : 

“I am just come from Philadelphia, gentlemen, 
where the ragamuffin Congress sits, and may I be 
flayed if I ever saw a finer lot of noodle-heads ! Our 
Virginian cocks-o’-the-walk were all there, slimy 
from their hell-broth of treason at Williamsburg. 
’Od’s heart ! It sickens to the marrow of the bones 
to see that lout Patrick Henry strut about in Quaker- 
dom.” 

Anne flinched as if she had been stung, and seized 
Henry’s wrist. “Oh!” she said under her breath. 
“Come away ! ’Tis shameful !” 

“Ho, let us hear it,” he answered. “Think yon 
I am not used to such as that?” His voice trailed 
a slender line of infinite scorn. “Look !” 

For more than one of those there had got up 
and were going out at this. Even among those who 
sided with the king, there were many who had spoken 
open disapproval of the Stamp Act days, and loved 
Henry for that, if for naught else. 

Foy saw it. “Aye, let them go — let them go!” 
he sneered. “’Tis time folk knew where loyalty 
lay, as they know with you and me, my Lord.” 

A slow contempt went over that rugged old face. 
The baron had small love for this coupling. He 


I PLEDGE YOU A BRAVE MAN 137 


despised the blackguard confidant of Governor 
Dunmore too heartily to bandy talk with him. 

Foy filled his glass. “ ’Tis said in Philadelphia,” 
he resumed, “that one of our Virginians got on his 
hind legs and told them he wished to God he could 
fight it out single-handed with George. What think 
you of that, Rolph ?” 

Lord Fairfax had deliberately turned his back 
upon Foy, but he shifted in his seat now at the an- 
swer of one of the quality. 

Burnaby Rolph, Foy’s companion of the gold- 
lace, already heavy with the punch and .rocking 
tipsily in his chair, lifted his head and laughed 
drunkenly. 

“Sooth,” he hiccoughed. “The same one offered 
to enlist a thousand men at his own expense and 
march them to relieve Boston.” 

Anne’s face went colorless and her fingers clasped 
Henry’s arm with a force that made him wince. 
“Cruel! Cruel!” she said, for the old baron broke 
in, stammering with eholer : 

“The infernal rebel!” he cried, trembling. “Is 
it gone so far then? Do they flout their king to 
his face?” 

The buzz in the room ceased, and all eyes looked 
at the tawny old nobleman, his features working 


138 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


with wrath. Henry’s fingers were tight-closed and 
Anne’s white teeth bit her under lip till a spot of 
blood came upon it. 

All in that room knew the old man; many loved 
him; not a few held lease upon his land. He was 
one of the last brave barons who bore his name; 
for the most part, whether crusaders or poets, men 
gentle, reckless and mindful of God; men who lived 
cleanly lives, and died commending their souls to 
Jesus and bequeathing torches and sheep for their 
funerals. He was a man every inch of him! He 
blamed the king’s ministers, but he loved the king. J 

At the leer Foy gave him, some half rose angrily, 
but others, of the lower sort, scenting what was com- 
ing, slyly winked and smiled behind their palms. 

“One could scarce be too severe with such a bloody 
knave, my Lord?” 

“He should rot in Tyburn !” blazed the old man. 

“Swelp me !” cried Foy, with a coarse laugh, “and 
who, gentlemen, think you was this hangman’s cur, 
this dirty factious scoundrel? Why, Colonel Wash- 
ington, i’ faith, — turn-coat since the French war!” 

There were murmurs at this from all sides, even, 
from these Tories — at the trap that had been set — 
at the wanton affront to a friendship that had been 
well known throughout the Colony, since the days 


I PLEDGE YOU A BEAVE MAN 139 


when Lawrence Washington first brought sweet Anne 
Fairfax from Bel voir to Mt. Vernon. 

“Hound!” ground Henry between his teeth. A 
cold hand seemed pressed upon Anne’s heart. 

The stanch old loyalist’s face had turned a gray- 
white. He half choked and his hand went fumbling 
to the lace at his throat. He was silent for a mo- 
ment, his great brows together, his fingers on the arm 
of the chair clasping and unclasping, while Eoy 
sneere " audibly in the quiet. 

“Not . . . George!” he faltered at length. 

Something almost like a dry sob escaped him. He 
seemed not to see the sneering face before him, 
now searching about for applause. He turned to 
the company with a gesture appealing and pathetic. 

“Why, gentlemen,” he said, “ — why, I’ve known 
him since he was sixteen! I remember in forty- 
eight when he was a ruddy-faced boy and ran my 
lines for me ! The Whigs have misled him, maybe, 
but he could not take up arms against — his king !” 

There was a little stir in the place — a sort of 
waiting silence. Then a young man arose in the 
back part of the room and bowed gracefully. It 
was Monsieur Armand, and he held a slender- 
stemmed glass which he had filled. 

“Messieurs,” he said, simply, “I am not of your 


140 


HEAETS COTJEAGEOUS 


country, nor am I of the allegiance of your king. 
My country is one far away — and it is one that has 
learned of war to love a soldier and a brave man.” 

As he spoke, Henry’s face lighted with a great 
flash of surprise and pleasure. He did not see the 
white and red changing in his companion’s cheek, 
did not note her uneven breath, nor the wondrous 
beauty that came, softly curtsying, in her eyes. 

The voice went on : 

“But we of my country know one American, so 
well — we know him because it is against our own 
arms that he has fought — before Duquesne. Mes- 
sieurs, I pledge you a brave man. Colonel George 
Washington !” 

Armand lifted his glass gravely as he finished, 
and drank, and a little hushed cheer ran around 
the room. One could not have told from the speak- 
er’s face that he knew he had drunk alone. My 
Lord Fairfax had no glass, but he rose in his seat 
and bowed to him. 

The toast drunk, Armand set down the glass with 
a clash onto the table. His face became all at once 
set and cold, and he stood very straight. 

“One thing more, Messieurs,” he said, “we know 
in my country. We know the courtesy. Our pos- 
tilions know what is due to the gentleman of birth. 
And thus — ” 


I PLEDGE YOU A BRAVE MAN 141 


He turned sharply upon Foy. 

“I teach it to you — you dog of the kennel !” 

With this he flung the glass full into his face. 

So unexpected had been the action that Anne 
gave a little scream, unnoted in the stir across the 
sill, and Henry let out a great “By God!” of ad- 
miration. 

Foy^s countenance turned a deviPs, and his sword 
was out before he got up. 

Armand bowed to Lord Fairfax and then to Foy. 
“Monsieur,” he asked the latter, “is the affront to 
your liking?” 

“ ’Sdeath and wounds !” raved Foy, in a fury. “We 
need go no farther than here to settle this ! I killed 
a man at Minden for less.” 

The old baron got up, with the aid of his negro 
body-servant, breathing heavily. “Sirs!” he pro- 
tested. “Let there be no blood-shed, I beg of you !” 

“My Lord!” Armandos voice was quiet and con- 
tained, and it was all he said. Lord Fairfax stopped 
short, looked at him a moment, swallowed and stood 
still. 

Rolph came lurching forward, his shifty eyes so- 
bered by the outcome. “Gentlemen,” he cried, “clear 
the room and send the servants away. We shall need 
to confer.” 

The baron crossed the room at this and held out 


142 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


his hand. “I beg of yon,” he said, “to honor me 
by yonr presence at Greenway Court to-morrow.” 

“I thank you, my Lord,” said Armand. 

Then the old man, with his head up, erect and 
leaning on his servant’s arm, passed out to his char- 
iot. He knew very well that Foy was reputed to 
be the best swordsman in the Colonies. 

“Have you a friend who will serve ?” asked Eolph. 
Armand shook his head. 

“Aye,” said Henry fiercely, and swinging his long 
legs over the sill strode into the room. “If you 
will allow me, sir !” 

Anne waited to hear no more, but ran back through 
the court-yard to the door. Her eyes, blinded by 
tears, scarce saw the great, gaunt figure till she felt 
his hand upon her hair. 

“You here, my dear, in Winchester?” he said 
gaily. “You must ride to Greenway Court. We 
shall be blithe for you ! I have just invited a guest 
for to-morrow.” 

Looking up, as she held his hand, Anne saw two 
drops — little shining miniatures of his big heart — 
roll down his cheeks. 


i 


l 


CHAPTER IX 


A GLIMPSE OF HEARTS 

“And you will not stay ?” 

“I can not. Mademoiselle.” 

They stood a little way from the inn porch, be- 
tween low box-rows, and the young Frenchman’s 
eyes looked back the stenciled moonlight. 

“Yet,” Anne continued, “last ;ime we met. Mon- 
sieur, I should not have deemed it too much to ask 
of you. There are those of your sex who would 
not scorn the tedium of an evening with me. Would 
I had spared my invitation and my blushe:!” 

“Cruel! When you know I would give so much 
— anything, for an hour with you.” 

She touched his sleeve lightly. “We shall sit be- 
fore the fire,” she said, “and you shall tell us tale- 
of France and of the life in your own country. 
*Tis chill here.” 

“Mademoiselle, ' I can not. I have a tryst to- 
night.” 

“With beauty? Then will I not delay so gallant 
a cavalier.” 


143 


144 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


She left him and walked toward the porch, but 
her steps lagged. Turning, she saw him standing 
still, looking after her, then came back lacing her 
fingers together. 

“You will not stay ?” 

He shook his head. 

“I know why you go,” she said, after a moment’s 
pause. “I heard it — I saw it.” 

“You saw . . ?” 

“The quarrel in the parlor. I was in the court- 
yard by the window. I know what you would do.” 

He looked at her uncertainly, his eyes dark and 
bright. 

“’Twas a craven thing,” she went on, “a das- 
tardly sneer at a brave, true-hearted gentleman. 
My Lord Fairfax is old; and the cowards — the pit- 
iful cowards who knew him and have eaten at his 
table ! — they sat and heard and tittered behind their 
hands! But you must not fight. You must not.” 

“ And why not ?” he asked. “An old man, a noble 
baited by a swine! Should not such be resented 
by gentlemen ? And shall I, who have struck that 
scoundrel, refuse to meet him ?” 

“He has killed before,” she cried. “He has the 
quickest rapier in Virginia! It would be murder!” 

“Mademoiselle, I ask you — would you have me 
fear ?” 


A GLIMPSE OF HEAKTS 


145 


* ’Tis no question of courage,” she went on, hur- 
riedly. “Must not I, who saw it, know that? Only 
you of them all dared to resent it! Monsieur, you 
are brave !” 

“Mademoiselle !” 

“But it was in my Lord’s cause and I ask it for 
his sake. If — if you fall, he would sorrow for it 
till his death. And . . and . . ” 

“And you ?” He had bent forward eagerly. 
“Would you sorrow. Mademoiselle ?” 

“My Lord’s grief would be mine ” 

The young Frenchman drew a deep breath. 
“That is all?” he said sadly. “I am nothing but 
a shadow — a passing stranger, whose coming or 
£oing can not make your heart beat one bit faster 
or more slow? Because our ways have crossed but 
once, shall you tell me I can not know your heart? 
We are like stars. Mademoiselle, we human ones, 
little stars wandering in a vault of blue; when 
one star has found its mate, about which God has 
made it to revolve, shall the star refuse to obey 
because it has never known that star before? Have 
I found the one woman in the world for me, and she 
does not see the divine in it ?” 

Somewhere, far away, a whippoorwill began to 
call — a liquid gurgle through the clasping dark. 


146 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


There came the stamping of horses and a whinny 
from the stables. 

“Tell me, am I no more to yon than that stranger 
passing by ?” 

Anne’s voice held a tremor, bnt she spoke earnestly 
and softly: “You are more than that. You are 
one who once guarded me from danger — one whom 
I have this evening seen do a gentle deed that I 
shall remember always.” 

“Ah, it was nothing,” he answered. “Was it 
more than any gentleman might do? They were 
not gentlemen there! But I would be so proud 
of it. Mademoiselle, if it made you care ever so 
slightly, as I have said! If it made you think of 
me not as a stranger, but as suddenly . little nearer, 
a little closer than all else besides. Do you remem- 
ber what I told you that day as we rode in the wood ? 
That a man has a want for two things, a cause to 
fight for and . . some one to wait for him? 
It is near the time now and I must go. Mademoiselle, 
out into the moonlight. I should go joyful if you 
but told me that last want was mine! You — you 
can not give me that?” 

Anne did not answer, but she was trembling with 
a new sense of intoxication. 

“ I ask you to give me a token, something to 


A GLIMPSE OF HEARTS 


147 


carry with me as I ride, to keep the memory of 
always, to — ” 

“Monsieur !” 

“I love you !” 

“Ho, no,” she cried, “I can not listen. I — * 

“I love you 1” 

“Stop!” 

“Once to touch your lips — ” 

He was leaning near her, so near she could feel 
his breath warm upon her cheek. In a sudden surge 
of revolt, she thrust out her arm as if to further 
the distance between them. 

“Ho!” she cried. “Ho! How dare you ask me 
that? How dare you?” 

“Ah, Mademoiselle !” 

“Count you me so cheap?” she asked, turning 
half way; hut she did not hasten. He dropped' on 
one knee and lifted the hem of her skirt to his 
lips. 

She let her hand fall upon his head with a flut- 
tering gesture. Then, as he started up with a joy- 
ful exclamation, she ran back toward the porch. 

Standing with bared head in the moonlight, he 
saw her pause on the threshold — saw the heavy door 
close behind her; 


148 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“You damned clod!” bubbled a furious voice 
behind him. 

The young man turned composedly as the figure 
came out of the darkness of the highroad behind 
him. 

“Ah, my Jar rat,” he said, “is it you, then?” 

“Look you !” J arrays voice was hoarse with pas- 
sion. “There are some things that are denied you. 
This is one. Be warned.” 

“Warned? And by you?” laughed the other. 
“You lay a law for me? Wherefore?” 

“Our compact — ■” 

“And do I not hold to it, Monsieur ? Did you not 
tell me to search out the bright eyes and red lips? 
Did you not say to me that love was fair in the mid- 
dle plantation? Did you not whisper of proud la- 
dies waiting to be kissed ?” 

J arrat burst into a laugh : 

“You! Why, you pitiful fool! So this is the 
why of such brave daring! Insults, forsooth, and 
duels with gentlemen! A fine nobleman it is, to 
be sure. Think you the toast of Virginia is to be 
charmed by your tinsel swash-buckling? Think you 
that Mistress Tillotson would lower her eyes to you ?” 

“She has already lowered her eyes to me, Monsieur.” 

“I tell you I will have you keep your clerk’s face 
elsewhere !” 


A GLIMPSE OF HEARTS 


149 


“Clerk ?” repeated the young man. “No, no 
Not a clerk; a nobleman, a marquis — one of the high' 
blood — a title guaranteed me this morning by my 
Lord the Earl of Dunmore.” 

“So that is it,” jeered the other fiercely. “You 
think to wed a lady by this brave masquerade? 
You dream • . ” 

“Not by this masquerade — no,” said the French- 
man, a brightening stain coming to his face. “By 
only my heart. By only what it holds. Monsieur. 
I said she had already lowered her eyes to me. Yes, 
— the fairest lady in Virginia— and still she does 
not guess of our plan and of my bargain this morn- 
ing with his Excellency! Ah, such happiness! 
I did not even dream it would be so — 'that she 
would regard me, me just as I am. When his 
Excellency has returned- — when I am a nobleman — 
I shall have this to remember — that it was so. 
That when she first gave me her hand to kiss, it 
was to me, just to Monsieur Armand — not to the 
marquis* which I shall become.” 

“A title,” prompted Jarrat, “good only so long 
as I please.” 

“You will not tell her otherwise. No. Because 
you wish me to carry out this purpose — this pretty 
play the plan of which has so joyed the noble earl 
in the fort yonder and made him smile upon you 


150 


HEAETS COUEAGEOUS 


and swear you were fit for a cardinal. You would 
not cloud this beaming favor of his with early 
failure. No, you will tell no one. A man serves 
either love or ambition, and your ambition is mas- 
ter. And I? I am not worthy to kiss her hand. 
No one on earth, rich or proud as he may be, 
could think himself that. But I could offer her 
more than you, for if I had the whole world, I 
would give it all — wealth, name, ambition, — just 
to be but a vagabond on the street with her ! No, 
you will not tell her, Monsieur, that I am not what 
I may come to seem. You will not tell her.” 

Jarrat’s face purpled. 

“Beware, you spawn !” he said in a choked voice. 
“On other points you are free, while you serve in 
this. But go not far along che way you have chosen 
— with her. She is not for such as you.” 

“ She is for whom she loves,” answered the young 
Erenchman. 

The clatter of horses sounded and the lank figure 
of Henry came from the stable yard, leading two 
mounts. 

As the pair took saddle and rode away, Jarrat 
stood looking after them down the high-road. 

“So the lady has lowered her eyes to you !” he 
scoffed, with a dark smile on his arrogant lips. 


A GLIMPSE OF HEARTS 


151 


"And I dare not spoil your gay masquerade? I 
wouldn’t give a pistole for your chances with Foy. 
He will end you as he would undo an oyster. You 
made a mistake, my new-laid marquis, in soaring 
so high, and a worse one in bragging of it. But for 
that touching scene in the yard I had stopped that 
blundering idiot, but now he may spit you and wel- 
come l" 

The rattle of departing hoofs had scarce died 
away when Anne crept softly down the stair of the 
inn. She had donned a long cloak, and from un- 
der the edge of its hood, drawn over her hair, her 
blue eyes looked out with a feverish brightness. 

The hall was lighted with a great lantern 
whose yellow flood added to the flower-white pal- 
lor of her countenance. The clock was striking 
ten. The soldiers had sought the fort to gain early 
rest and the townfolk were gone home. The long 
parlor was still and dark. Through the open door 
Anne could see the litter of tankards and pipes, 
and a lean dog stretched with black muzzle laid to 
the threshold, asleep. 

She slipped through the door and to the high- 
road, and then, with tremulous fits of fear at the 
shadows, ran at her best pace toward the fort. It 
was a good half-mile, and she reached it out of 


158 


HEAKTS CQTJEAGEOW 


breath. 'A sentry at the gate stopped her, and lo 
him she said she wished to see the governor on 
important business. 

“I know not if he will see you/** he objected 
doubtfully. “It is late and the march is to begin 
at sun-up.” 

“But he must see me,” she told him. “Tell him 
he must!” 

He left her for a moment, then, returning, led 
her across a court of hard-beaten earth into a log- 
building containing a single room. At the far 
end was a table, strewn with papers and maps. A 
sword-rack was nailed to the wall. 

In an arm-chair before the table, his plumed 
hat and sword tossed across it, sat the governor, 
heavy, coarse-featured, with reddish, muddy-skinned 
complexion under a black curled wig. He was pig- 
necked and his eyes were bloodshot. 

She came into the center of the room and curt- 
sied slowly while the earl rose clumsily, his red 
eyes flaming over her lithe, young beauty, and sat 
down again, tilting back his chair. 

“Your Excellency,” she began, “will pardon this 
intrusion, and my haste. A duel is to be fought 
this night on Loudon Field, and I— I appeal to you 
to prevent it.” 

“A duel?” The earl bent his bulky neck. *T 


A GLIMPSE OF HEARTS 


153 


faith, this Is not the court at Williamsburg. I 
have weightier red-skin matters at present to fill 
my time. But ’tis truly a desperate encounter to 
cause such a pretty interest from Mistress Tillot- 
son. And what fight they over, pray? I warrant 
me they have seen your eyes — eh?” 

“At the King’s Arms to-night,” she said flush- 
ing, “an affront was offered to a gentleman who 
was absent.” 

“Who was this gentleman?” 

“Colonel Washington.” 

“The Mt. Vernon farmer whom the rebels be- 
speak to drill their hinds. Humph! And whose 
was the affront, eh?” 

“Your Excellency’s aide. Captain Foy.” 

The governor slapped the table, highly amused. 

“’Twas Foy? ’Od’s fish, but he has a high 
stomach. He carries a pretty point, though, and 
has used it, too. He can take care of himself. 
And why think you I should trouble myself over 
such playful blood-lettings, Mistress? Soldiering 
makes one not so squeamish. Haith, but I have 
had affairs in my day. When I was a braw young 
blade — aye, and there were pretty eyes went red 
then, too,” he added with a boisterous laugh. 

Anne’s fingers quivered with resentment and 
storm came to her eyes 


154 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“Your Excellency/* she cried, “the thing was 
but a trick to wound and flout a loyal-hearted 
gentleman !” 

“Ah, indeed? And who this time?” 

“My Lord Fairfax.” 

The earl chuckled in his chair. “So the baron 
took up for his farmer-friend, eh?” he asked, shak- 
ing his sides. “I scarce assume that Foy is going 
to fight the old man?” 

Anne had drawn herself up, her face pale with 
this added humiliation. She replied with dig- 
nity: 

“No, your Excellency. The affront was an- 
swered by a French gentleman named Armand.” 

At the name, the governor dropped his feet shuf- 
fling, and a quick gleam darted across his florid 
face. 

“Armand!” he cried. “The devil, — eh? Foy 
to fight him?” He struck the bell for the orderly 
as he spoke. 

“It shall be stopped,” he went on. “An affront 
to Lord Fairfax, you say — a king’s man, aye, and 
a loyal. Loudon Field is it? Foy shall be disci- 
plined, the rascal! I thank you, Mistress, for this 
information. I shall send at once and put a stop 
to the meeting.” 

He was leading her to the door as he spoke, not 


A GLIMPSE OF HEARTS 


155 


waiting her thanks, and as she went out she heard 
him rumbling angry instructions to his orderly. 

Before she had gone from view of the fort gate, 
four mounted men poured out and clattered down 
the high-road at a planter’s pace. 

Later, in her own chamber, Anne opened her 
window, and, leaning far out on the ledge, gazed 
into the night. The wind that whispers so softly 
of a Southern night moved the loose, white folds 
of her gown. The air was a fragrant film of misty 
violet hiding in its trailing skirts purpling shadows, 
where black cedars slept against the tranquil sky. 
The moon was marvelous; near the horizon, awed 
by the greater glory, tiny stars shone like green- 
gilt coals. 

“ ‘Like little stars/” she murmured, “‘wander- 
ing in the blue.’” Then, after a pause, “‘a little 
nearer, a little closer than all else besides.’” 


CHAPTER X 


\ 


NIGHT AT GREENWAY COURT 

The spot selected for the meeting was not near- 
by, since Virginia’s earl governor had forbidden en- 
counters within a ten-mile of a military camp. It 
lay on the Alexandria side, lower down in the val- 
ley, nearer to the Shennando and distant from the 
high-road, — more than an hour’s ride under the 
stars, where in a tangle of twisted fir trees and 
hazel bushes, was a sandy clearing of some acres, 
covered sparsely with reddening fern. Foy rode 
thither with his seconds, Rolph and a lieutenant 
in the royal forces. 

“I like not these night affairs,” spoke the lieu- 
tenant. “Dew is slippery and the light deceives. 
I have known of accidents.” 

Foy cut in with a laugh of contempt. “’Twill 
be an accident i’ faith,” he said, “if I send not his 
soul a-scurry to hell for that glass!” 

“I mind me that fight at Minden,” said the lieu- 
tenant, musingly “’Twas no white night such as 
156 


NIGHT AT GREENWAY COURT 157 


this, but black as the Earl of Hell’s riding-boots. 
Roots and slimy grass and • . 99 

Foy cursed him with his hand shaking on his 
rein. “Let that alone for now,” he snarled. “They 
lied an they said he slipped. They lied! 5 Twas 
fair, I tell you.” 

“Aye,” said the other, surprised. “ ? Twas a fair 
thrust. None doubted it.” 

“Where are your wits?” said Rolph, reining 
close. “Know you no better topic? When you 
have triced the young upstart, Foy, we shall have 
a toddy to-night. This air has an ague.” 

A lantern had been set at the by-road, and at 
this Henry and Armand turned into the open 
space. The curving road on the higher Blue Ridge 
slope had been delicately grayed with a gossamer 
mist, creeping up from the late downs; here it had 
risen thicker, curdling more deeply against the 
ground and sopping the air with the smell of wet 
beech bark. With the sailing moon above, it was 
like going in some murky, dull-toned world where 
near things were shadowy and far vanished into 
opaque whiteness. 

The other party was in waiting, the horses, in 
charge of a groom, tethered near-by, under clusters 
of black-scarred, white-stemmed birches, which 
stirred dimly as if afraid. Through their moving 


158 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


branches fitful flashes of fog-mixed moonlight fil- 
tered whitely on Foy, striding up and down, slash- 
ing off golden-rod heads with his sword, and listen- 
ing to the rustle of late rabbits, scurrying. 

1 “Gentlemen,” said Henry gravely, “know you no 
means by which this meeting may be avoided?” 

“The young cock’s crowing less loudly, eh?” 
Foy turned to his seconds with a rolling laugh. 

■ A quick word of anger was on Armand’s lips as 
he faced Henry, which died as Burnaby spoke: 

“Let him to his knees and ask Captain Foy to 
use his riding whip instead of his sword.” 

The Frenchman’s laugh rang out clearly and 
loud. “I have seen Monsieur le Capitaine ride. If 
he uses his sword as poorly as his whip — ” 

“Damnation !” said Foy. “Measure those 
swords, Rolph, and be quick about it.” 

Henry held Armand’s coat and waistcoat after he 
had stripped them off, and stood slight and young, 
in his shirt. He looked at him with rising pity. 
All Virginia knew of Foy’s sword-skill. He had 
a black record in the army of Duke Ferdinand 
of Brunswick, and these tales had been whispered 
wide in Williamsburg. There he had come to no 
open quarrel as yet and was made a boon com- 
panion by such pot-tipsters as Burnaby Rolph 
and lesser toad-eaters like young Brooke. But the 


NIGHT AT GREENWAY COURT 159 


better class gave him a cold shoulder as unworthy 
to mix with gentlemen of character and would have 
needed little to have named him to his face for a 
sneaking whelp that smelled strong of the hang- 
man. 

The young Frenchman took Henry’s hand be- 
tween both his own. “I have been so occupied these 
last three hours,” he protested contritely. “Have 
I said to you that you are generous and kind to 
assist thus in the affair of a stranger? Have I said 
that I was grateful?” 

“Colonel Washington,” said Henry, “is my best 
friend. An I had been in the inn parlor, sir, I 
had drunk that toast with you.” 

The night was very still. Scarce a leaf stirred 
in the vagrant hreeze or shivered in the haze. Only 
a dull humming chirr of night insects from the 
thicket, and drifting across this — a gold snake on 
a sad carpet — the rich, plaintive bubble of a whip- 
poorwill. 

“Gentlemen,” cried Rolph, “^is all ready?” 

“Have you no command. Monsieur ?” Henry asked. 

The young man’s eyes were soft as he shook his 
head. “How sweet it sings!” he said. “Listen!” 

It died, and the tapping of a bell, very faint, 
and far and tenuous, came over the still valley. 
Henry knew the sound. Away to the eastward, 


160 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


on a high knoll, stood a long, low structure of 
limestone, with a wide veranda. Perched upon its 
roof were two wooden belfries with alarm bells, 
which had been hung twenty years before, after 
Braddock’s defeat, when the Indians turned their 
tomahawks against the white “chief” that dwelt 
there. The Indians had been driven westward 
long ago, but the bells still rang whenever the 
master, with yelping hounds or by flaring torches, 
came back to his lodge. At this moment, while 
Armand stood in the moonlight, with a naked 
sword in his hand, my Lord Fairfax, for whose 
affront he stood, was come again saddened to Green- 
way Court. 

Foy’s voice broke in, sneeringly wrathful. “Are 
we come to string beads — ” 

“En garde!” cried Armand, turning sharply, 
and the two blades rang together with a clash. 

Foy’s attack was wonderfully strong. He had 
the trick of carrying the head well back and rest- 
ing the whole weight of his body upon the left leg 
— a sign of one whose learning had been without 
masks. The other’s method was as different from 
that of his antagonist as night from day. He 
fought far forward, engaging much with the point. 

A maitre d’escrime might have seen in his action 
some of the freedom and directness which later 


NIGHT AT GREENWAY COURT 161 


gave Bertrand, the greatest fencing-master of 
Europe, the surname of the “Terrible ” But to 
the watchers, it seemed to be utterly without 
method — barren of rule — to be loose, uncontained. 
He possessed the appearance of a child at careless 
play with a serpent, not conscious of its sinister 
intention. 

A pain came into Henry’s dark eyes and a paler 
tinge to his cheeks. He groaned inwardly as Foy 
suddenly came at Armand, pressing him back in 
a furious chasse-croisse — first the right foot for- 
ward, then the left. 

The lieutenant stood close to Henry, his lips 
parted, watching. “They say Foy was taught of 
Angelo,” he whispered, “and that the pupil could 
best his master. Your friend is in evil case.” 

So indeed it seemed. Foy was a brute and he 
fought like one, with face distorted and breath 
rattling with rage. He came on with the lunge 
of a hunter at a boar, his blade hate-heavy, 
and the very fury of his rush sent the young 
Frenchman back to the verge of the bushes. 

Armand returned with a stop-thrust, parried a 
lunge and answered by a riposte . Then, for a mo- 
ment, there was nothing but the du-tac-au-tac of 
slim steel, cutting wayward blue-white flashes where 
the milky light caught its edge. 


i62 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“End the cub, Foy,” cried Rolph with an oath, 
“and let us to town. You could have spitted him 
forty times!” 

“By heaven!” suddenly’ hurst out Henry. 
“Bravo !” 

The Frenchman’s blade, beating up a flancon - 
node, had nicked a crimson gash on Foy’s shoulder. 

The latter, smarting from the prick, and en- 
raged beyond measure, came on again cursing, his 
chin set forward from his neck and a fleck of foam 
on his lips. 

Armand had changed his tactics. He still had 
the appearance of looseness and lack of close de- 
fense, but, strangely enough, Foy’s point, though 
wielded by the redoubtable swordsman that he was, 
had not so much as slit a ruffle of his shirt. He 
was untouched, immaculate, careless and debonair. 

Now he became of a sudden winged. He turned, 
circled, was here and there with the rapidity of an 
insect. The fight turned this way and that, crushed 
the bushes, was all over the ground. There was a 
maze of pricking, whirling arrows of sulphur- 
colored flame in the moonlight. Foy’s breath was 
coming hoarsely in his throat like that of a strangled 
dog. Armand began to laugh outright as he thrust 
and parried. 

The lieutenant wedged an exclamation amid the 


NIGHT AT GREENWAY COURT 163 


flick and scrape of steel. Foy’s face was become 
a welter of sweat and rage. This was a sort of 
fighting new to him. He tried every attack, every 
feint, double engage, coupe — each ineffectual. Ar- 
mand, nimble, laughing, began to hum a tune as 
he ran. 

Nothing could have been better calculated to goad 
his adversary to point of impotency. Already Foy 
had begun to cut and lunge in utter, whirling mad- 
ness. Rolph no longer called to him to end the 
matter. All alike saw that such ending was fast 
coming into Armand’s power alone. 

Again and again Foy laid his guard open to Ar- 
mand’s thrust, taking no thought, but still the 
Frenchman withheld it. Instead, his leaping point 
slashed the other’s coat to flapping ribbons, pricked 
him on the thigh, in the arm-pit, in the hand — ■ 
wasp-stings that drew blood and rage, but harmed 
not. 

At the first spurt of crimson, Rolph leaped for- 
ward, crying that it was enough, at which Armand 
politely lowered his blade; but Foy reviled his sec- 
ond with such devil’s curses that he went back to 
his station, gritting his teeth. 

The lieutenant raised his hand, withdrawing his 
eyes an instant from the combatants. Henry list- 
ened, and his ear caught the tattoo of hoof-beats 


164 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


flinging over the road, mixed with the falling of 
a lash upon horses’ flanks — a frenzy of impatience 
in the soun£. As it came clearer Rolph turned 
his head with a quick gleam of relief. 

At the same instant, Armand swerving far for- 
ward, wounded his antagonist in the right wrist, 
and, Foy’s fingers relaxing on the hilt, with a sweep- 
ing twist sent his sword rattling a good ten feet 
away. 

Foy was after it to snatch it up, with a snarl 
more like a wild beast than a man, when an officer, 
at a gallop, leading three soldiers, broke into the 
clearing and spurred fairly between. 

“Stop,” he shouted, out of breath. “Stop! In 
the governor’s name !” 

Armand tossed his sword to the ground. 

“Hell and fury !” foamed Foy, as he sprang back, 
slashing at the horse’s legs. “Out of the way, damn 
you !” The animal plunged aside, and Foy came 
at Armand like the madman he was. 

The officer threw himself off the horse too late, 
as Henry rushed forward. Armand stood perfectly 
still, his hand pressed to his side, where a stain 
was spreading crimsonly among the white ruffles. 

“Bear witness,” Rolph said with coolness, turning 
to the soldiers, “that Captain Foy is not himself for 
liquor.” 


NIGHT AT GREENWAY COURT 165 


“There has been no liquor drunk lately. You 
meant murder!” Henry turned fiercely upon Foy 
who, his rage sullenly sobered, stood biting his nails. 

“Enough, gentlemen,” interrupted the officer. 
“There will be time for that. I have his Excel- 
lency’s orders to bring all here in his command, to 
the fort. Captain Foy, Mr. Rolph, Lieutenant, I 
call on you to accompany me without delay to 
town !” 

“You are hurt, Monsieur,” cried Henry, throw- 
ing an arm about the young Frenchman, who stag- 
gered slightly. “Sir, you will not leave him so — - 
bleeding — here by the road-side? Green way Court 
is not far distant. In the name of humanity, I ask 
you to assist me to take him where he can have 
proper attention for his wound.” 

“I have imperative orders, sir. Mount, gentle- 
men.” 

“Well to leave him to the dogs !” burst forth Foy 
in a sudden simmer of white fury, as he turned in 
hi's saddle. “And you, you damned upstart rebel. 
Virginia would long have been the easier for your 
gibbeting !” 

Their hoof-beats grew fainter, then were gone 
in blankness and echo, and Henry, feeling the 
young man’s form grow suddenly limp, laid him 
gently down upon the turfi 


166 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


The baron had driven from Winchester that night 
with a hurt in his gallant old breast. When he 
settled back in his seat his hands trembled greatly, 
clasped atop his sword. The huge chariot, drawn 
by four wild ponies that would go at any gait ex- 
cept trot together, swung swaying from its leathern 
springs, and the road seemed very long. 

“Are we almost there, Joe?” he asked more than 
once. 

And the old negro, riding behind him, would reply 
stoutly: “Almos’ dar, Mars’ Torm; almos’ dar.” 

It was not to ancient Castle Leeds in Kent that 
he was going now — not to its vivid towers and russet 
gables — not to its romance and the mildew of its 
years. The clear river ran there never so clearly. 
It murmured never so sweetly to the terraced gardens 
and the hedges he had used to leap with his hunter. 
It was no longer for him, nor had it been for thirty 
years. 

If illusive gleams of one old garden, dew-drenched 
and rose-scented, lit by no light save the flame 
of his great love and hers — if these had flickered 
sometimes over the dull drab of latter days that 
he had fashioned — they had made him tenderer, not 
colder; had made for him life’s architecture not 
harsh of outline, nor barren of meaning, but more 
splendid from a thousand mullioned memories. 


NIGHT AT GREENWAY COURT 167 


There had come a time, too, when his grim heart, 
locked so tightly, had opened to another sen- 
timent ; a youth had galloped and hunted over 
Truro parish, a youth with ruddy skin and keen 
gray eyes — bluff Captain Washington’s son George 
— and the youth had galloped his way into it. There 
came the French war, and the youth was a man 
and a soldier. But to the old baron, president of 
the king’s Council, loyalist of the loyal. Colonel 
Washington renowned for Duquesne was still a 
stripling, still “my boy.” And this boy had chosen 
ways strange to the old man’s comprehension — ways 
seized on by vulgar men to flout his stanch re- 
gard. 

So to-night his heart was sore. Loneliness was 
come new-bittered upon him. He was riding soli- 
tary, old in years, older in sorrow, insatiably proud 
and lonely, to a rough hunting-lodge — his only habi- 
tation — whither in his untired youth, he had come 
to bury an old tired heart. The years had gone. 
Fame and achievement were passed by. The breezy 
freshness of those morning days, the clamping 
pulsations of hope — these were cold and dead. Only 
pride was left — pride of race that is noble and best 
— pride that does not shrivel the heart or wizen 
the soul. It still burned strong in the ravaged 
lace and defied the numbing sense of age. 


168 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


The fog, fold on fold, shut out the beauty of the 
way. Lower in the wooded valley the shadows lay 
very thick, like dead men strewn on a battle-field. 
Riding, he heard the leaves fall — like the illusions 
of youth, like happiness, like glory, like power 

“ Almost there, Joe?” 

“Almos’ dar. Mars’ Torm; alums’ dar!” 

Up the craggy way a flicker of light stabbed down 
through the drab-lace tree traceries, and the chariot, 
turning in to the clearing amid clamorous dogs, 
woke the cloistral silence of Greenway Court. A 
negro came out, beat back the dogs and let down the 
step, and the old man descended, leaning on Joe’s 
arm. In the moonlight, the gray limestone 
walls looked white and the mossed roof turned a 
slope of dull silver. On the low branches of the 
trees, turkeys dipped quick, querulous heads, quar- 
reling on their roosts. A stately fox-hound stood 
blinking in the open doorway, and he stretched his 
great head and licked his master’s hand as he en- 
tered. 

From the deep room, to left of the hall, glimmer 
of firelight glanced from the long shining barrels on 
the wooden gun-racks, huddled tawny shadows in 
the skins stretched against the rustic walls and 
gilded the somber rows of rare books. 

Joe brought my Lord his supper of venison and 


NIGHT AT GREENWAY COURT 169 


Bordeaux, standing behind his chair till his master 
was done. This was not long to-night. 

My Lord took up a hook, hut threw it down again ; 
then he lit his pipe and sat long silent till the fire 
domed blackening. Joe came in, piled pine-knots 
on it, and went shuffling out again. The hounds 
yawned about the hearth or whimpered softly in 
their dreams. 

Crackling steps roused them, and they scrambled 
out to bay and sniff, and yelp when the negro clubbed 
them back. 

A heavy tread stumbled up the steps. An aged 
mastiff, curled under the old man’s chair, hunched 
shoulders, growling, and the baron, sitting by the 
dead hearth, with the ashes fallen from his pipe, 
turned his head. 

Henry stood on the threshold carrying Armand 
in his arms. 

As his bearer stood, rocking, the young man 
stirred, opened his eyes wide on the baron and 
thrust down his legs. "My Lord,” he cried gaily, 
but with weakness and husking breath, "I come 
early to . . keep . . my . . appointment.” He 
took a step, and lurched forward on to the floor. 

Lord Fairfax stood up like a blasted tree with two 
dead boughs left swinging. "Great God! The lad. 
Has Foy killed him ?” 


no 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“Not yet / 5 Henry answered. “No fault of his, 
my Lord.” 

The baron shouted for his servants and for cloths, 
hot water and lily-vinegar. “He must have a leech,” 
he said. 

“I will ride myself for the doctor at Ashby’s 
Gap,” Henry answered. “But I will dress the wound 
first.” With Joe’s help skins were spread on one 
of the couches and Armand laid thereon. Then, 
with a woodman’s knowledge of wounds, Henry 
drew his knife and cut away the clothing. 

“It is not mortal?” asked the old man anxiously. 

“No. But ’twas a foul lunge. Think not he was 
the poorer swordsman. Never was such a skill seen 
in the Virginias as he showed this night.” 

“Is it so?” 

“Sir, he held that rat’s life on the point of his 
steel. I swear to you he could have run him through 
a score of times an he would. They stopped the 
duel — soldiers from the fort — and that red devil 
of Dunmore’s attacked him when he had thrown 
his weapon by and was empty-handed.” 

“Ah !” cried the baron. 

At length Henry stood up. “I am off to the 
Gap now. I shall not return with the doctor, since 
I must on to Williamsburg to-morrow. But for 
safety’s sake I shall pray him speed.” 


NIGHT AT GREENWAY COURT 171 


A struggle showed in the baron’s face. No one 
had ever gone uncheered from his door. He kept 
open table at the Winchester courts, fed the poorer 
settlers with his own produce, and would have filled 
the ragged hat of a beggar with guineas. One pas- 
sionate hatred he had — hatred against the enemies 
of his king. All were alike to him, high or low. 
The times, growing beyond him, had put forward 
patriots. But, all alike, he deemed them vipers 
that bit the hand that fed them. 

As Henry approached the door, my Lord was 
fidgeting in his chair. The hand was upon the latch 
when he could restrain himself no longer. 

“Joe!” he thundered, “fetch a stirrup-cup. You 
may be a rebel, sir, but — damn my whips and 
spurs ! you shall drink before you go. I could wish 
you were not an enemy of the king’s.” 

“Not of the king’s,” said Henry, and smiled. 
“Not of the king’s, but of the king’s rule.” 

A gleam of fierceness, of the uncompromising 
principle of his life, shot from under the old man’s 
brows. “I hold with no disloyalty.” 

“I hold,” said Henry, in a low voice, “with my 
friend, Colonel Washington.” 

“I abet no treasons,” flamed the old man. 

Henry’s eyes hid a sudden gleam of satiric humor. 


172 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


He stretched out the glass the negro had brought 
him and proffered it to his host. 

“I must decline,” he said, “to accept hospitality 
from any man on earth who has aught to say against 
the character of Colonel Washington!” 

The baron stood for a moment with his jaw 
dropped, then coughed. “God knows — ” he said, 
his voice shaking like a child’s, “God knows I — ■” 

But he got no further. “My dear Lord Fairfax !” 
exclaimed Henry, and drank the glass at a draft* 

Hour by hour my Lord sat beside Armand, 
now pale, now tossing in a fitful, thirsty fever. 
Wind came and clashed the branches outside. There 
were no sounds save these, the occasional baying 
of a hound, the soft crackle of the fire. 

Looking at the younger face on the bear-skins, 
the old man wandered over many leagues of ocean 
to a mysterious land where he himself moved amid 
the gay throng, young like this helpless guest — 
quick, too, to resentment and daring, giving honor 
where honor was due. Now he was of the same 
age — at the University, one of its jeunesse doree; 
now riding with honest Dick Steele the trooper, 
or dropping in for a dish of tea with Dick’s pretty 
wife; now reading to Joe Addison a paper he 
had written for the Spectator; now sauntering arm- 


NIGHT AT GEEENWAY COUET 173 


in-arm with Lord Bolingbroke from drawing-room 
to rout and from rout to drum-major, dicing with 
his fellow-officers in the crack regiment of “The 
Blues,” handling swords and cards and drinking 
wine — all this in the olden, golden days of good 
Queen Anne. 

And with the thought of those days came a vision 
of a face that seemed a part of them — the face of a 
woman, slim-necked and lovely, high-colored and 
with a rare hauteur of eyes. 

0 memory that strikes across such voids of time ! 
Had he forgot a line of that face? He who had 
seen it in sun and moon, framed in the chair-window, 
and against green leaves? Not he! He smelled 
the perfumes suddenly of flowers long withered, 
caught the sound of tapping scarlet heels and the 
frou-frou of brocades. Youth and its delusions 
were come upon him. The sleeping fires stirred in 
the ashed-gray heart, and gilded a host of memories 
of his younger manhood, beautiful, sad and tender, 
but vivid as the crimson rifts made by the crackling 
fire. 

Softly, lest Joe should hear and come to aid him, 
he went across to a cabinet and took from a secret 
drawer an indented parchment, old and yellow. It 
was a marriage contract, drawn in England, and 
made ready for the signature and seals. The upper 


174 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


margin was cut in a sinuous line — the name of the 
lady and the date effaced. Only the man’s name 
was left, solitary, defiant. He laid it back after 
awhile and stumbled to his chair by Armand’s 
couch. 

A red core fell in the fire-place and myriad tiny 
spark-clusters melted up the chimney’s throat. The 
fire sprang up, flushing, leaping, paling, casting a 
Rembrandt glare over the great solitary figure sit- 
ting with its Past. 

Silence in the room. Over all, outside, the long 
benediction of moonlight and falling leaves. 


CHAPTER XI 


WHEN" A WOMAN DREAMS 

In the gray-wreathed dawn Lord Dunmore, at the 
head of his Virginia troops, marched off with fife 
and drum for Fort Pitt, and the buff and scarlet 
passed the King’s Arms, where Anne peered from 
the window to see them off. In one of the scarlet 
groups she distinguished Francis Byrd. Drawing 
the curtains close under her chin, she put out a hand 
and waved to him, smiling, and he saluted her face 
with a flash of his sword and a wistful look as he 
rode by. Immediately behind the governor, near 
J arrat, rode Foy, and a sting of resentment made he£ 
clench her hands, with the steel in her eyes. 

When they had gone she crept back into the warm 
bed and lay smilingly thinking. She should see 
Armand soon again, and he should never know what 
she had done! So thinking, she dropped to sleep 
and did not wake till the sun was high. 

She breakfasted with gay spirits, insisted on 
riding horseback, and followed by John-the-Bap- 
175 


176 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


tist, galloped off a half hour in advance of 
her aunt’s chariot, along the way to Green- 
way Court. The day was cool with a tang of frost, 
and Anne gave the spur till the negro was hard 
pressed to keep her in sight. At length she halted 
where the road bent, to laugh when he came lumber- 
ing up and pulled his horse back on his haunches 
at sudden sight of her. 

“Fo’ Gord, Mis’ Anne,” he panted, all eyeballs 
and white teeth. “Dat’s de beatenes’ hoss yo’ got! 
He fly lak er shot outer er shov’l! Yo’ go dar 
lak dat, yo’ skeer Mars’ Fairfax ter fits !” 

At the opening of the road which went twisting up 
the spur to the lodge, she dismounted and ran on 
afoot. Save for the tumbling dogs, the sparse clear- 
ing was silent and the hospitable door stood wide. 

She entered. Ho one was in the hall, and her feet 
fell noiselessly in the thick buffalo-robe on the floor. 
Overhead showed black rafters squared with sun. 
Hats and great-coats were hung on a huge pair 
of antlers, and a muddy riding-whip was stuck 
into a Chippendale vase in the corner. Over all 
lay that indefinable lack which the absence of woman 
gives to a habitation, be it miner’s hut or bishop’s 
palace. 

She pushed open the door of the living-room and 
then stopped, startled. 


WHEN A WOMAN DltEAMS 


177 


She saw a settle, strewn with skins, a wave of 
curling brown hair pillowed on it, and under this 
a glimpse of a pale face turned away. There was 
a shaded window opposite, and light came through 
it whitely. A hand and wrist hung over to the 
floor. There was something desolate in the silence, 
something appealing in the droop of that hand 
that brought a smart to Anne’s eyes as she looked. 

Suddenly she caught her breath, and took quick 
steps forward into the room, gazing searchingly at 
the figure on the couch — the strong hair, setting 
all the paleness of the face in a shadowy frame, 
the blue circles under the closed lids, the young 
mouth, the upward sweep of the rounded chin. She 
began to tremble exceedingly, her lips unsteady, her 
great blue eyes misting, her whole face caught in 
a quaking terror. She had gone whiter than a 
moon-flower. 

“They were too late !” she whispered. “You 
fought, then! Ah, while I was so glad!” 

She crouched down by the settle, her hand pressed 
tight against her heart, full of a joyful anguish 
she had never known. Something she had fought 
down hitherto rose in her throat and choked her at 
sight of this hurt, this helplessness. 

At last, yielding all at once, with a little sob 
and a gesture of pride and longing and surrender. 


178 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


she bent slowly, like a swaying lily and kissed him 
on the forehead. 

He stirred and opened his eyes with wonder in 
them to see her face so near. 

“Mademoiselle !” 

“You have been wounded !” she breathed. 

He tried to rise, and failing, smiled at her. “It 
is a little thing. The doctor has told me that. 
And you care ! Then it is nothing — less than 
nothing.” 

“You make light of it.” 

He lifted himself on one elbow and stretched 
out an uncertain hand toward her. “Mademoiselle,” 
he said, “was I dreaming when you came, or did 
—or did—” 

She was on her feet now and her eyes turned 
their gaze away. 

“No, no,” she answered, “you were asleep.” 

“As I opened my eyes just now it seemed — as 
if you had — kissed me on the forehead. Was that 
a dream, Mademoiselle?” 

“It was a dream,” she said hurriedly, her voice 
wavering. 

“You kissed me !” Joy was in his look. 

“No !” 

“Ah, Mademoiselle!” He fell back on the skins. 

With suddenly rosying cheeks, she ran toward the 


WHEN A WOMAN DREAMS 


179 


door to meet the old baron entering from the 
hall. 

That was an autumn when Lord Fairfax felt 
the freshening of youth. The October came like 
a painted Eden, wherein the gold-raftered forests 
around Greenway Court glowed and reddened to 
sunsets that opened like hearts of cleft pomegranates 
and faded into vast lilac-tinted glooms, where the 
songs of whippoorwills throbbed like silver hearts 
of sound, and from which the mist-veined dusk 
lifted like incense. 

Twice in the weeks while Armand bettered, Anne 
and Mrs. Tillotson drove down from Berkeley, where 
they visited, and at such times the baron’s table 
sighed with all the provender of the valley. Anne’s 
moods on these rare days were strange — full of glow, 
of impatience, of eager brilliancy, of stimulating, 
unmanageable ways, of audacities that went flash- 
ing through her personality like forked lightning 
through a purple cloud. 

There was at last a long November week while 
Anne was at Winchester, and when she and Armand, 
his wound healed, rode together along the valley 
ways. The young Frenchman still remained a guest, 
for the baron would hear no word of departure; 


130 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


he swore he should not leave him till the season 
opened again at Williamsburg. 

The day before their return to Gladden Hall, the 
ladies spent at Greenway Court. As the mild No- 
vember afternoon faded, Armand and Anne sat in 
a rustic house, built of twisted grape-vine, set 
where the round spur on which the lodge was 
built fell steeply down. A book lay on her knee. 

Far away, against the long sashes of sapphire 
light, the sweep of ragged Blue Ridge stood listlessly. 
The river bottom was a violet-gray reach of stain- 
soaked grasses hung with wreaths of trailing Vir- 
ginia creeper drabbled in the summer’s blood, or as 
if the peaks ran down with red wine wasting. 

Anne pointed where, just below, the river wavered 
like a sheet of spun silver, edged with soaked vel- 
vet. 

“The Indians call it ‘Shennando,’ ” she said — 
“‘Daughter of the Stars’.” 

He leaned forward and lifted the little book, its 
binding of parchment, pale-yellow, like antique ivory. 
“It is a tale of my own land,” he said softly, “of 
Normandy, in the old days when the troubadours 
sang.” 

“I have not yet read it,” she answered. “Tell me 
the story.” 

“It is of the son of a poor wood-cutter. Toiling 


WHEN A WOMAN DREAMS 


181 


once by his hut in the forest, he saw by chance the 
daughter of a king as she rode past with her caval- 
cade. He brought her a cup of water, and she 
smiled on him. So fair she was that he loved her 
to desperation, and could not rest nor sleep from 
thinking of her face. He traveled far and came 
by night beneath her window and sang songs to 
her, songs delicate and beautiful, in phrases that 
only his great love had taught him, and when he 
sang he touched the strings of his own heart. The 
lady listened, and her tears fell down from the 
window in the palace wall. She was a great lady, 
and he the lowest of the land, and in the hopeless- 
ness of his passion he sang that he was a prince 
of a hostile country, wooing in attire of rags the 
darling to whose presence he might not rightly 
come. His were not like the songs of the gilded 
courtiers that flocked her father’s gate. They were 
more noble and true, and his love climbed upon 
them, as if on stairs of gold, and drew her heart 
out to him over the sill. One night she slipped out 
to his arms in the darkness. Then he knelt on the 
yellow forest leaves and told her the truth and 
pleaded as excuse his great love. And he would 
have gone from her and left her to go back alone.” 

“What then ?” demanded Anne. 


182 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“She took his hand and kissed him and went 
away with him to his hut in the forest.” 

Both were silent a moment. 

The vivid tints in the sky were paling. The river’s 
silver dulled to mauve. The gloom, all luminous, 
seemed an impatient suitor stealing amorous upon 
the drowsy day. The day stirred, glowed again and 
spread out a tawny flood, as a woman drops her 
hair under some golden lamp to please a lover’s 
whim. 

“Think you,” he asked then, very low, “that such 
a love might be?” 

“ ’Twas for love of her,” she said softly. 

When he spoke again she felt a thrill in his 
voice. 

“Mademoiselle, suppose a man loves with a 
love that fills all the sky ; that for him there 
was but the one woman in the world. Suppose she 
found that he was not what she had thought 
him when she first loved him — that the idol 
she had worshiped was just clay. If he stood 
mean and small before the world — before her — • 
but still loving her, adoring her ! If it were 
not a princess going to a hut in the forest, 
but a woman, prideful and . . . and ashamed! 
Could she still love him as before? Could she? 
.Could she?” 


WHEN A WOMAN DREAMS 


183 


Her eyes could not meet his burning ones. 

“Monsieur,” she said, quivering, “when a woman 
loves, she will forgive anything — everything in the 
man she loves, save ...” 

She stopped; there was a muffled sound of horse- 
hoofs from the climbing road. 

“Save what?” 

“Save lack of love for her.” 

The hoof-beats were coming nearer. She made 
a desperate effort to compose herself. He had bent 
toward her— so near she could smell the fragrance 
of hazel bushes in his hair. 

“Then it would not matter — she would not 
care,” he cried joyously. “He might be either 
the prince or the wood-cutter, Mademoiselle?” 

The last shaft of the sunlight stumbled and tan- 
gled on her brow. Dark loomed near — only a gold 
brush was laid lightly upon the middle djstance. 

“If a woman loved and was loved so, naught else 
would count. Not even — even if he were despised 
by all the world — even — ” her lips were tremu- 
lous. She felt his hand on the bench beside her 
suddenly touch her own. 

There was a trampling behind them. Both turned 
to the porch, where Lord Fairfax stood leaning 
on Joe’s arm, to welcome the two riders who had 


184 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


just dismounted. The young man made an ex- 
clamation. 

“Why/* exclaimed Anne, “*tis the governor him- 
self, returned from Fort Pitt.** 

As they approached, the girl crimsoning with the 
memory of her night errand to the Winchester fort, 
the earl was bending bulkily over the hand of Mrs. 
Tillotson, in the doorway. 

“You honor my poor house with this visit,** said 
the old man, beaming. “Anne, you know his Ex- 
cellency.** 

The governor bowed to her curtsy, and set his 
eyes on the paler face of the figure at her side. 
First a low chuckle began in his throat. Then he 
slapped his thigh. 

“So that was how the land lay!’* he guffawed. 
“Hot content with quarreling with my soldiers, 
eh ? And incognito yet, 1*11 be bound !** 

The baron stood staring, and Anne looked a bit 
frightened. 

The governor reached a thick arm and prodded 
the young man genially in the ribs. 

“Sly dog — eh?** he winked. “Tut-tut! Would 
you still deny us poor Virginians? Haith, then, 
come here! Ladies, my Lord Fairfax — it pleasures 
me to present to you Monsieur le Marquis de la 
Trouerie.** 


CHAPTER XII 


ENTER, A POET 

With Lord Dunmore’s abrupt and final dissolu- 
tion of the Burgesses and his departure for the 
frontier, the quality of Virginia had shut their 
Williamsburg homes and taken up again the life at 
their mansions scattered along the river valleys. 
They had gone outwardly suave and content, with 
a smiling and placid demeanor that might have 
deceived a deeper statesman than the Earl of Dun- 
more. At their houses they had resumed the Ar- 
cadian life of the plantation, hunting, riding, en- 
tertaining, with the same deliberateness, the same 
ease, the same hospitality. This life, so simple in 
its motives, so elaborately complex in its detail, was 
a duty to Virginian gentlemen. 

How, with the return of the governor to the cap- 
ital laden with victories and substantial treaties, they 
trooped back — men of great names: Washington, 
Mason, Jefferson, Harrison, Cabell, stanch Whigs 
185 


186 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


all — from Mt. Vernon, from Gunston Hall, from 
Monticello, from Brandon, from Union Hill. 

And from Belvoir, from West over and a dozen 
other loyal houses went the Fairfaxes, the Byrds 
and the wealthy planters who shrugged their shoul- 
ders at estrangement and bowed lower than St. J ames* 
courtiers to that strangely self-willed king, George 
III, whose looking-glass was the House of Com- 
mons, before which he adjusted himself daily, whose 
religion was to please everybody — at once a gentle- 
man and a tyrant. 

Mrs. Byrd, arriving with Betsy in time to greet 
Francis when he returned with the troops, walking 
at early evening on the Bruton pave among new- 
come councillors and students in cap and gown, 
met a trio with linked arms, two of whom the matron 
would have passed with righteous eyebrows. One 
was Patrick Henry in riding dress ; the other, a small 
dark man, was Alberti, the violin teacher. 

The presence of the third, however, as it were, 
removed the curse from the others. Mrs. Byrd had 
inveighed against him often enough when in anger, 
but, after all, she never forgot that he was the mas- 
ter of Monticello and that his mother was a Ran- 
dolph. 

“Mr. Jefferson!” gushed the lady. “Welcome to 
town again.” She nodded with condescension to 


ENTER, A POET 


187 


Henry and Alberti. “How is Monticello and the 
wonderful new decorations?” 

Jefferson turned his gray-flecked hazel eyes on 
Henry with a grimace. 

“Sooth,” he replied, “slow enough. That is Mr. 
Henry’s favorite gibe at my expense.” 

“Lord,” chuckled Henry. “He was out to beat 
the Grand Tartar. ’Twas to have a burying-place 
with a Gothic temple and a roof -like lantern of 
Demosthenes at Athens and a park with a buck-elk 
and a buffalo. He was going to settle down there 
and become a philosopher and curse at Plato and 
Davy Hume. Now he has got the place, he is like 
the cow that swallowed the grindstone.” 

“Mr. J efferson,” interrogated Betsy, eagerly, “have 
you yet seen Williamsburg’s new marquis that every 
one is talking of?” 

“No,” Jefferson replied. “A marquis? So our 
home beaux will have to smart themselves to hold 
their own. As for Henry and me, we are old mar- 
ried men.” 

“’Tis not so long ago for you, Tom,” Henry re- 
minded, “that you were a gay dog, too. Doctor 
Walker, your guardian away at Castle Hill, never 
knew the half of it ! When you were at William and 
Mary, — ‘Devilsburg’ he called this town then, ladies ! 
— I remember you had a fierce flame for some ‘Be- 


188 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


linda’ that had knit yon a pair of garters. The rats 
ate them afterward.” 

Jefferson’s face creased in a smile. “I was sev- 
enteen then, Mrs. Byrd. Mr. Henry should have 
taught me better, but his evil influence hath made 
me a politician, who then thought no further than 
a fiddle.” 

“And he has the fiddle yet,” from Henry. 

“So I hear,” Mrs. Byrd said. “Does he profit by 
your lessons, Mr. Alberti ? There are some who have 
it that ‘God save the King* is a tune not taught in 
your rooms.” 

The Florentine whose eyes were on the tall, ivory- 
white spire, shrugged his shoulders at the shaft and 
laughed. He cared little if all Williamsburg called 
his lodgings a nest of insurrection. 

“My old fiddle is about still,” said Jefferson. “I 
mind when Shadwell, my father’s place, was burned. 
I was at Richmond and one of the slaves brought me 
news of it. ‘Were none of my books saved ?’ I asked 
him. ‘Ho, Mars’ Torm,’ says he, Amt we saved de 
fiddle !’ ” 

Betsy laughed. When her mother talked of Henry, 
the fiddle was her choicest jeer. 

“Such conversation l” Mrs. Byrd said irritably, as 
they proceeded toward home. “Fiddles!” 


ENTER, A POET 


189 


“And they didn’t even know the marquis was in 
town!” pouted Betsy. “I wonder if Anne has got 
back from Berkeley yet.” 

Henry, Jefferson and Alberti went to a narrow 
house in Duke of Gloucester Street, where the Flo- 
rentine let them in with a key. Inside, they passed 
up a narrow stair to a room unconcealably bare 
but comfortably warmed, containing a large table 
littered with writing materials. This was a chamber 
afterward celebrated scarcely less than the Raleigh’s 
Apollo Room, christened for that famous apart- 
ment in the Devil’s Tavern on Fleet Street, London, 
where Shakespeare and Jonson held their bouts of 
wit and wine. 

Here, in these troublous days when rebellion 
stirred underground, one might often see the faces 
of that coterie of young men who, holding aloof 
from the younger set of the tavern, formed them- 
selves into a club whose watchword was resistance 
to oppression — Henry, Jefferson, George Mason, Paul 
Carrington, Samuel Overton, St. George Tucker. It 
was an active junta, and the head and front of its 
inspiration was Patrick Henry. Fiddle-cases and 
sheets of written score lay about, but they were 
seldom used. Those who met came to learn a sterner 
and more martial music. 


190 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Henry stretched himself in a chair and yawned. 
J efferson stood, his hands behind him, leaning square- 
shouldered against the wall. 

Never was there greater apparent disparity be- 
tween two men. About Henry hung an atmosphere 
of deceptive laziness. Jefferson’s homely, thin- 
skinned face was all alive. Henry was lithe but 
stooped and ungainly; Jefferson stood two inches 
over six feet, sinewy and straight as a ramrod. 
Henry was dressed carelessly in dull colors, his 
\ bottom- wig uneven; Jefferson wore a blue coat with 
lace and a waistcoat of crimson. His reddish chest- 
nut hair was exactly curled. Henry had spoken with 
a drawl; Jefferson’s every word was clear-cut, in- 
cisive and full of assurance. 

The disparity carried further : Henry’s horse went 
burred; Jefferson, before his daily mount, tested 
his hunter’s velvet grooming with a white silk ker- 
chief. Henry hated minutiae; Jefferson had down 
in his books the two pennies paid for a shoestring 
or the sou tossed into a beggar’s hat in Paris. Jef- 
ferson was college-bred; Henry a student of the out- 
of-doors. Jefferson was the learned lawyer, Henry 
the advocate. Jefferson lived by facts; Henry was a 
dreamer. 

Yet now, as they waited, Jefferson looked at 
Henry ; Henry at the fire. 






ENTER, A POET 


191 


Alberti lit the candles, then went out, closing the 
door, followed by Jefferson’s eyes. 

Henry waited until his retreating footsteps had 
died down the hall; then he turned to Jefferson 
with a flash in his cavernous gray eyes. The flip- 
pancy and careless demeanor were gone. His 
saturnine visage had become suddenly transformed. 

“All goes well, Tom,” he said. 

“The militia?” 

“Ready, all of them. I called the men of Hanover 
to meet me at Smith’s Tavern, and I spoke to them. 
There was no shilly-shallying — you should have heard 
them cheer! Would the king could have heard 
them — aye, and Lord North ! Tom, we enlisted the 
first independent military company in Virginia ! 
No allegiance holds; they are sworn to execute all 
orders from the Committee of their county. What 
news from the lower country? Has their blood all 
been sucked out by the mosquitoes?” 

Jefferson smiled. “The Committees of Safety are 
. forming without noise. In two months there will 
be six thousand men enrolled. The Committees of 
Correspondence are under way.” 

“Good!” cried Henry. “Now for the best of all. 
I have seen General Lee and Major Gates of Berkeley, 
and both favor the movement. And, Tom — Colonel 


192 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Washington has consented to review onr companies 
and to take command!” 

He was silent a moment, his eyes sparkling, his 
fingers rustling the papers on the table. 

“’Tis the lull before the storm,” he said, finally. 
“Let us work while we may, for it must burst 
soon !” 

At the other end of the town, a half mile from 
where Henry and Jefferson sat in consultation over 
lists of militia from the counties, Master Christo- 
pher Hooke stood outside of his Williamsburg 
tavern, which held out upon it the sign of the 
college, and watched the evening stars crowding 
into the violet sky. 

Many a hogshead of best Virginia leaf came yearly 
from up-river plantations with the younger sons 
of broad acres and manorial homes to William and 
Mary College, and these younger sons kept Master 
Hooke’s ire florid and his purse content. 

The tavern was on the high-road near the com- 
mon, and its host, a severe, stocky man with mild- 
lidded eyes, took his long pipe from his mouth and 
bowed to Francis Byrd as the latter* tanned from his 
campaigning, turned in from Duke of Gloucester 
Street, minded for an hour of old-time enjoyment 


ENTER, A POET 


193 


whose peculiar flavor he had sighed for a score of 
times while away. 

The host smirked at a renewal of old acquaint- 
ance. 

“Good evening, yonr Honor,” he said obse- 
quiously, as befitted a scion of Westover. “I am 
blithe to see you again. There are some few of your 
age and quality within, though I wager,” he added 
shrewdly, “they are less sober than you by now. 
The young gentlemen are prickly these days — ’tis 
that young Master Freneau, I warrant, sets them 
so. Know you him ?” 

“No,” said Byrd. 

“He was a student in New Jersey, I hear,” con- 
tinued Master Hooke, his mild eyes turning a-twin- 
kle, “but lately he is come to take lectures at the 
college here. He writes some pretty verses not good 
for loyal ears to hear. Lard, how the tutors love 
him! Theology has gone sparking with his cockle- 
head. They say Dunmore would throttle him an 
he dared, as Pharaoh’s midwives throttled the infant 
Hebrews. In sooth, the rogue has made the college 
a pepper-pot, till it would pleasure my young mas- 
ters well to behead King George on the campus 
each evening. You mind when the news came that 
the merchants of New York had broke through the 


194 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


resolves not to import. The collegiates donned their 
gowns and made a procession. *Twas as solemn as 
a burial. They burned the letter which ashed the 
merchants of Philadelphia to open port, and set a 
black to keep the great hell tolling from noon till 
midnight. Had Master Freneau been here then, 
I doubt they had burned down the palace!” 

Byrd had paused long enough to catch a muffled 
sound of conviviality from within. How he opened 
the door and followed the long hall to where a 
crack of light above the sill pointed the tap-room. 
The dark had blinded him and when he entered 
he stood dazed by the intrusive glare of candle light, 
rubbing his eyes, which smarted sorely from the 
blue and white tobacco-smoke that ringed the air 
with floating silver haloes. 

As he stood, a thick voice came out of the far 
haze, calling in no certain accent for more ale, 
and if not, for one Jacob, a drawer, who should set 
forth the reason why in classical Latin to be passed 
upon in due examination. The ale should have been 
forthcoming, for a lusty chorus straightway began 
of which he could make out but little save the stave : 

“But since he is pleased to proclaim us his foes. 
What the devil care we where the devil he goes ¥ ’ 


ENTER, A POET 


195 


roared out with sturdy thumpings upon the oak, 
and in voices of all manner of cadences. 

There opened a wide space, consisting of two 
rooms, one cut into another through a spacious door- 
way. It was from the inner room that the din pro- 
ceeded, where was a group of roisterers of about a 
score of years, gathered around a board littered with 
pewter pots and broken “councillors.” 

Three oak tables sprawled along the walls of the 
inner room. At the farthest sat two young men, 
of dress very genteel; their square-topped caps were 
flung on to the window seat. One of the couple, it 
appeared, had just received his allowance and the 
twain were expending it on a dinner into which, 
though the game-pie was scarce yet opened, had 
already entered more of the tavern’s liquor than was 
good for either of them. 

Byrd’s eyes passed over these and fixed themselves 
upon a man sitting with back to the door, chin in 
hand, scowling at the pair. He wore a dusty riding- 
cloak and high military boots with spurs. 

As the door swung he turned suddenly, and Byrd 
recognized Captain Foy. 

The newcomer sat down at the remaining table, 
called for a flask of claret, and settled himself to 
await some old acquaintance while enjoying the keen 


196 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


badinage and wit that flew about, mixed with spright- 
ly nonsense and gibes of a political savor. The 
party in the inner room did not stint their noise. 
There was a toast to the tutor in mathematics, a 
Mr. Houston, and one to the proctor, which latter 
was greeted with melancholy groans and lamenta- 
tions. 

This had scarce lessened when the outer door 
opened and there entered a pale-faced youth of 
expression sad and studious, seeming at first glance 
perfectly out of character with the surroundings. 
He was slight almost to girlishness, his dark features 
sharp and finely chiseled, his long black hair falling 
carelessly over his forehead. His fine ruffles were 
of almost a foreign foppishness. 

As those in the room turned, he spread his hands 
abroad, brought the fingers together with the thumbs 
upward, and, moving them with a curious motion, be- 
gan to speak in a rich nasal and with exactness. 
Some warning it was against a play much practised 
by students with balls and sticks in the back campus 
of the college, which he assured them was low and 
unbecoming gentlemen and students and attended 
with danger to the health by sudden and alternate 
heats and colds. 

“Gad’s life V 9 howled one of the two over the 


ENTER, A POET 197 

pasty. “’Tis old Camm himself !” and fell to slap- 
ping the table. 

At close they shouted, ‘‘Freneau! Phil Freneau!” 
pounced upon him as a fox takes a partridge, and set 
him, protesting, upon a table. “A song, Phil !” they 
cried. “None shall sing but Phil!” 

And so, sweeping his hair from his eyes with a 
hand on which sparkled several rings, he began: 

“As Jove the Olympian (who loth I and you hnow 
Was brother to Neptune and husband to Juno), 
Was lately reviewing his papers of state 
He happened to light on the records of Fate . 

“ And first , on the top of a column he read 
Of a icing with a mighty soft spot in his head. 

Who should join in his temper the ass and the mule. 
The third of his name , and by far the worst fool.” 

As he sang the doggerel, he nodded his head from 
side to side with elaborate gestures, and his eyes, 
set on Foy^s scarlet uniform, sparkled viciously. 
The latter flounced in his chair and his teeth came 
together in an angry snip, seeing which Byrd looked 
vastly delighted. 

The youth on the table grinned amiably at his 
comrades and continued: 


198 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“ Then turning to Vulcan, his master of thunder. 

He said, ‘My dear Vulcan, I pray you go yonder . 
Now as you're a blacksmith and lusty stout ham- 
eater. 

You must make me a globe of a shorter diameter / 

“Old Vulcan complied (we've no reason to doubt it). 
So he put on his apron and went strait about it — 
Made center, and circles as round as a pan-cake. 
And here the Pacific, and here the Atlantic 

He brought each stanza out in a shrill hooting 
falsetto, and his hearers, flocking about, beat pewter 
on tables with a delight which left no question of 
their Whig proclivities. As for Byrd, he looked 
at the captain and rejoiced to see the flush that 
was creeping up his cheek. 

“In the African clime (where the cocoanut tree 
grows ) 

He laid down the desarts and even the negroes. 
The shores by the waves of four oceans embraced , 
And elephants strolling about in the waste . 

“Adjacent to Europe he struck up an island. 

One part of it low, but the other was high land. 

With many a comical creature upon it, ' 

And one wore a hat and another a bonnet 


ENTER, A POET 


loo 


“These poor little creatures were all in a flame 
To the lands of America urging their claim, 

Still biting, or stinging or spreading their sails ; 
(For Vulcan had formed them with stings in their 
tails.)” 

Here Foy flirted his red-coat about with a snarl 
at them for a drunken crew of jingle-brains, and his 
hand went to his sword. The singer paused. 

“Shall I cease, gentlemen ?” he inquired with 
suave gravity. “I would not tread upon the feelings 
of any true poet with my poor feet.” 

This brought a great laugh and shouts came from 
all sides. “No! How then? Freneau forever! 
Go on!” And he, cocking his legs, though with a 
wary eye on the captain’s sword-arm, sang lustily 
on. 


“‘Go Hermes to Libra (you’re one of her gallants) 
And ash her’ said Jove, ' for the loan of her 
balance ; 

How else should I know what the portions will 
weigh. 

Or which of the combatants carry the day?’ 

“ Then searching about with his fingers for Britain 
He said, * This same island I can not well hit on t 


200 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


At last he exclaimed , *1 am surely upon it! 

I think I have hold of a Highlander's bonnet t 

“ ‘So now, my dear Juno , pray give me my mittens , 
(These insects Fm going to handle are Britons) 
Til draw up their isle with a finger and thumb 
As a doctor extracts an old tooth from the gum / ” 

Foy got upright, letting loose an oath. “You 
damned whipper-snapper,” he hissed, “you need the 
flat of a blade! Have a care how you stout your 
greasy treason !” 

Freneau did not stop, only his delicate hand closed 
tight around the handle of the tankard : 

tc Then he raised her aloft — but to shorten the tale, 
She looked like a clod in the opposite scale — 
Columbia so large and Britannia so small , 

Jove needed his glasses to see her at all.” 

Foy leaped around the table, dragging off his 
sword, and made so cruel a lunge at Freneau that 
Byrd looked to see the matter ended then once 
for all, hut he, with a lithe swerve, bent sidewise 
and the blade gouged the oak instead. 

Then there was a pandemonium in truth. The 
young men, none of them, wore any weapon — it being 
punishable by a fine of ten shillings Proclamation 


ENTER, A POET 


201 


money at the college — hut they were quarrelsome 
enough, God knows! The scarlet coat, which it 
seemed had gained scant notice before, was like the 
flaunting of a red rag to a herd of young bulls. But 
a fair part of them were past sobriety and for a 
moment they stood uncertain. 

Freneau drew back and poised with the tankard 
raised to hurl in Foy*s face as he came at him with 
a spring like a cat. 

Then, as the arm went up and past him, Byrd 
struck down the blade with a chair and at the same 
instant, tilting with his shoulder, sent Foy length- 
wise into the corner, where he fell with a curse, amid 
a rattle of bottles from the overturned table. 

There was suddenly a crash of hurled crockery 
— a whirl of swearing where the aide lay with the 
table pinned across his chest — an instant view, bulg- 
ing in the doorway, of the figure and stern face of 
Master Hooke with a stout cudgel in his hand — 
a sudden cry of "Lights! Lights !”■ — the snuffing 
of candle wicks — a scramble through a window. 
Then the dim moonlight and a spurting race down 
the dusty high-road, with a gust of mixed panting 
and laughter. Behind, dying in the distance, a fleer 
of oaths and the clashing of lanterns. 

"^Twas prettily done, sir,” vowed Freneau as the 
chase fell slower. "For which I thank you. He was 


202 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


near to spitting me. As it is, I was fetched a strong 
kick in the side. By the Lord, you were not slow 
with that shoulder blow. Yet heaven made you 
slim. Ohime! Would ’twere my forte instead 
of sorry jingling !” 

It was impossible not to like Freneau, for he bub- 
bled with gaiety like a tea-kettle. Byrd perceived 
in five minutes that he took to controversy like a 
babe to mother’s milk, rejoiced to sniff the odor of 
insurrection, cherished most dearly his hatreds and 
loved rhyming as he loved the sea. 

The two had reached the common and were round- 
ing the angle of the great building which fronted 
the moon-silvered sward, when, out of the shadow of 
a live-oak, two long muscular arms stretched and 
laid upon their sleeves, while a stern voice with a 
vibrant nasal demanded of them their names md 
their stations and whether they were students of the 
college. 

Byrd’s comrade sputtered something. 

“H-m — Finlay Secundus!” exclaimed the voice. 
“Were ye not fined only last week, Finlay Secundus ?” 

“ ’Tis I, Philip Freneau, sir.” 

The owner of the arms turned them about to 
the moonlight and let go his hold grudgingly. “I 
would ye were under the regular rules of the col- 
lege, Freneau,” he said, “Ye got a sheep-skin four 


ENTER, A POET 


203 


years since from Prince-town, — by the skin of the 
teeth, I warrant — and ye are as disorderly as the 
worst of my collegiates.” 

"Sir,” said Freneau, with a gesture which made 
his rings sparkle in the moonlight, "I crave your 
pardon. My friend and I were peaceably discuss- 
ing the lyric muse in the College Inn when we were 
set upon by a scurvy soldier who took offense at the 
honest sentiments of a song which I but sang by 
way of illustration. So, not wishing to embroil 
ourselves with any, we made our escape. ’Tis Sir 
Intolerance you hear now, swearing the dust from 
the high-road.” 

A last mouthful of blaspheming was borne on the 
breeze. The visage above them deepened its lines. 

"What was the song ?” 

"A poor rhyme of my own, within which Jove 
doth weigh the Americas over against the isle of 
Britain, somewhat to the latter’s discredit, ’tis true,” 
and he sighed becomingly. 

In the dim light Byrd saw a beady frown twist- 
ing the corners of John Camm’s grim mouth. 

"Ayeu some rebellious rigmarole!” he thundered. 
"There is no dearth of rebellion taught at Prince- 
town,, they say ! A very nursery of sedition, and that 
pinch-nose Presbyterian, John Witherspoon, shall an- 
swer for it to the crown ! He fought at Falkirk 


204 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


for the pretender — would the king had not softened 
after Culloden! An he had not, the psalm-singing 
Belialite were lying yet in the castle of Donne, 
where he were better off \” 

He stalked off muttering, and Freneau sat down 
on the grass in a dry laughter. 

“I clean forgot to ask your name, sir / 5 said he, still 
chuckling, to Byrd, as they said goodnight. 

“Francis Byrd / 5 answered the other, “of West- 
over ! 55 

“Oh Lord ! 55 said Freneau to himself as he watched 
him go. “Would the doctor had known it. And 
his father on' the governor’s Council, too! Oh 
Lord ! 55 

As Francis stood by the fire-place that night 
chatting with his mother, the door opened. His 
father limped in tittering ferociously, and Betsy be- 
hind him, burst upon the pair like a petticoated 
whirlwind. 

“Mother! Frank! Lord Fairfax introduced the 
new marquis in the Apollo Room this evening! 
And who do you suppose he is? He is that horrid, 
impudent young man who gave Anne the redemp- 
tioner woman on the York-town wharf ! 55 

“Mercy me ! 55 ejaculated Mrs. Byrd. “That de- 
signing girl! Colonel, what on earth are you so 
amused about ? 55 


CHAPTER XIII 


love's supreme surrender 

The Marquis de la Trouerie was a Huge success. 
Williamsburg’s wealth and beauty vied in entertain- 
ing him, and no rout was complete without him. 

At the Raleigh Tavern, whose low wooden walls 
were kept a-throb with packs of new deviltries 
brought by young bloods of the navy from the sloop- 
of-war “Fowey,” come to anchor in York Roads, 
he was the center of observation when he diced. 
Commissions in the royal navy went for gold in 
that rotten reign, and their holders were younger 
sons with as much money to spend as the younger 
sons of the broad manors of Virginia. 

Young Brooke, who, by aid of half the broken- 
fortuned harpies and rooks of London, had long 
ago run through all he could lay hands on, and whose 
talk was always: “When I hunted at Tunbridge 
Wells with my Lord This,” or “When my Lord That 
had me at Hendron Castle for Easter,” had now 
nobility near at home to descant upon. 

“A great man in France,” he would enlighten the 
205 


206 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


room-full, smoothing his ruffles. “Favorite of Marie 
Antoinette’s, they say, and as rich as J ohn Dory. 
Egad, I’d like the pattern of the coat he had on this 
morning !” 

As for the marquis, he took his honors quietly, 
superbly. More than once it was reported that he 
had dined privately with the royal governor, hut 
he himself clearly thought it scarce worth mention- 
ing. 

An interesting story of a duel with Captain Foy 
gained currency for a time. The captain was said 
to have wounded the marquis slightly by foul means, 
but Foy was absent much of the time on business 
for the governor, and the story was forgotten save 
for the passing glamour it cast upon the new 
favorite. 

The nobleman’s preference for the beauty of Wil- 
liamsburg was soon perceived, and very early Mrs. 
Byrd had begun to hint at broken hearts and the 
folly of young girls who set their eyes too high. 

Anne herself was never so beautiful, never so bril- 
liant, never so wilfully captivating, as now when 
a scarf of gaiety hid the passion of many hearts 
fermenting. 

On an afternoon they two, Anne and Armand, 
walked slowly under the pines that stretched down 
from the gateway of Gladden Hall. 


LOVE’S SUPREME SURRENDER 207 


The sky was a clean, cold steel. Early twilight 
blended the delicious mingled-brown and dull- 
orange of the singed fields with the waxen-green of 
the red-pricked holly bushes, and the frozen glare 
of ice-ponds shone bleakly in the stubble. Above 
the collar of her great-coat Anne’s face was rosed 
with the tang of the frosty air which turned the 
breath to ghost-faint smoke curdles. Their steps 
broke crisply through the crusted rime, and from 
the fields came the tinkling of belled sheep nipping 
withered grass and the whir of shy partridges scud- 
ding through rustles of weeds dry as dead wasps. 

A sense of repression was upon her — a restraint 
that had been growing since the last day at Green- 
way Court. It had risen out of that elusive happi- 
ness which comes to a woman’s heart as light as 
butterfly-wings and leaves a terror. It was a long- 
ing, delicious fear of what she at the same time 
dreaded and desired — the instinct to ward off the 
actual event which her heart knew was inevitable. 

Just before the martletted gateway he stopped. 

“You are cruel to me, Mademoiselle.” His voice 
was anxious, vibrating, longing. 

“Why cruel, Monsieur?” 

“Ah, I need not tell you that !” he said, looking at 
her earnestly. “Is it that I have failed? Am T 


208 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


not, somehow, what you would wish in— a noble- 
man? Is there something lacking ?” 

She shook her head. “No, no!” 

“Yet something is different. I have searched so 
hard to find what it is. I have seen you at the 
routs and have danced with you, but you are not 
the same. At Greenway Court, there where the 
leaves were falling — I wish it could have been so 
always, us two, in the forest ! — you were kinder and 
not so cold to me !” 

“Marquis!” There was a splendor of color in 
her face, bent sweet to him ; her eyes, tinted and lus- 
trous, were gay beneath the warm glimmer of her 
hair. 

“Marquis!” repeated the young man, flushing. 
“I was not that to you in the forest. I found then 
that you were not like the ladies of my own land, 
who know naught save grandeur and titles, but that 
you could be above such things — that you were such 
a one as I have dreamed must be somewhere. I ask 
you only to be to me as you were then — as you 
were that day when the governor came back — when 
I sat with you on the hillside. Can you forget. 
Mademoiselle, that I am not just the same that I 
was then ?” 

“ You are so much more; then I did not know who 
you were.” 


LOVE’S SUPREME SURRENDER 209 


"X would the governor had not come/* he said. 
"I would have remained to you just the same as I 
had been. The same as when for one moment I 
held you in the broken coach, and that moment 
when I opened my eyes at Greenway Court and saw 
your face !” 

She felt her hands trembling, her heart beating 
its way through her breast. His voice was very low 
as he went on : 

"A man finds sometime the one of all the world 
he would not have cold to him. He may never have 
seen her before — -her whom he has looked for all 
his life — the woman in his heart! But he always 
knows her when he hears her speak ! He can never 
know when or where that may be. It is at the ball, 
or walking in the street — or riding — in a coach. 
That day, Mademoiselle . . And it was before 
you knew! I was just Monsieur Armand, not the 
Marquis de la Trouerie. I was not great then, but 
just a man — and unworthy!” 

"No,” she said, her tone tremulous. "Not un- 
worthy. That night at the tavern in Winchester 
— that was the bravest thing I had ever seen; the 
noblest! Do you think anything, anything , could 
make me forget that ?” 

"And you would have come to me! But now — 
but now — ” 


210 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


She looked at him with a little vibrant thrill of 
pride. How sweetly blind he was! “Now?” she 
asked. 

“Now I can only ask yon to remember that it 
was Monsieur Armand — not the marquis — who knelt 
to you when you laid your hand on his head that 
night at Winchester, with the whippoorwill and the 
moonlight; and who told you — what he is trying to 
tell you now — what he tried to tell you when you 
saw him lying at Greenway Court, only you would 
not listen.” 

She turned to him a look that was all melting, 
all tenderness — all confusion of impulses — a look 
that caught him and held him spell-bound. 

“You kissed me,” cried Armand in a triumphant 
voice. “You kissed me! It was not a dream! 
Look in my eyes.” 

She looked at him, paling, feeling her hands im- 
prisoned in his own. He laughed with a low, fierce 
delight, for her breath was quick, her eyes like mist 
and fire. 

“Do you love me?” he breathed, a sudden passion 
leaping in his voice. “Do you love me ?” He caught 
her close to him. The whole world turned beneath 
her feet and the stars shook. “My gold rose ! Tell 
me ! Is it so !” 

She moved her head with a mingled gesture of 


LOVE’S SUPREME SURRENDER 211 


pride, of shame of yielding, of assent. Then with a 
little cry, frightened yet joyful, she felt his arms, 
masterful, draw her close to him and stood trem- 
bling, joyous, a wave of love engulfing her. 

“Answer me,” he said. “The night we sat in the 
rustic house and the sun was a big red flower clos- 
ing. You remember what I asked you?” 

“Yes ...” 

“If the man you loved — if I — should come to be 
mean and unworthy before the world — ” 

“But you are not I” 

“If I were/ 9 

“My king I” 

“If you saw me sneered at, despised, but still 
loving, still worshiping — ” 

“I would love you ! I would love you !” 

A light came over his face, brilliant and pale. 
“With the love that is the all, that is greater than 
the world, that is above station, above honors, above 
name ? That outlasts them all ?” 

Her arms went up about his neck and their lips 
met in a first long kiss. 

“All,” she whispered. “All! All! Louis! My 
beloved!” 

Anne peered into the warm library of Gladden 
Hall, all aglow with her strange new delight. The 
fire was low and doming embers made the dusk rosy 


212 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


and uncertain. She smiled as she saw the dim figure 
sitting with feet outstretched, just the top of the 
powdered peruke showing over the back of the big 
chair. 

With her finger on her lips in that instinctive 
pantomime that belongs to woman, she stole across 
the floor on tiptoe and swooping suddenly, clapped 
her cold palms over the eyes of the solitary occu- 
pant and laughed gaily as he started and put warm 
hands to her chill ones. 

"I have a secret to tell you — ■,” she breathed with 
a fluttering laugh, “and you mustn’t look at me 
when I say it. I wonder if any one in Virginia 
can be as happy as I am! The Marquis de la 
Trouerie — uncle, he has asked me to wed him — ■” 

She ended with a subdued scream, and stumbling, 
went back a few steps. For the figure that had risen 
from the chair was not Colonel Tillotson. Even 
in the dim light as she retreated, she could see the 
glare of flaming malice in his look, and the sneer 
curling his full lips. 

“I tell you, Captain Jarrat,” she said, in a wave of 
fierce anger, “I hate you ! I hate your face and your 
crafty ways. Ah,” she ended, stamping her foot, 
“no gentleman would have let me speak — would have 
listened.” 

“I am no marquis,” Jar rat rejoined with a ghastly 


LOVE’S SUPREME SURRENDER 213 


smile. “I am only sorry I did not hear the end of 
that sweet confidence. The fair Mistress Tillotson 
answered that she would joy to wed the noble gentle- 
man, I suppose.” 

“Aye, and if she did ?” 

He laughed — a jarring, mirthless laugh. 

“Why then, I who have failed to win her with a 
simple soldier’s name should wish her joy of the tin- 
sel of her title.” 

“You mistake,” she cried passionately. “An you 
were the king himself, I would not look at you. 
The man I love, I would wed the same, were he poor 
and nameless and of no report, aye, a laborer in the 
fields, instead of the nobleman he is !” 

A voice in the hall struck across the quivering 
tones : 

“Rashleigh, a bottle of my best canary and stir 
your bones about it. Come in, come in. Marquis. 
We shall have a glass to this, I promise you.” The 
door opened and Colonel Tillotson came forward, 
blinking in the blaze of the branched candlestick 
he carried. 

“Ah, here you are, Anne, entrenched in the dusk 
with reinforcements, eh? Well, the battle is over 
and I have surrendered.” 

She had raised her hand to stop him. “Uncle,” 
she warned, “you have a guest.” 


214 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


The colonel stopped at sight of the other in some 
confusion. 

“Why !” he exclaimed, “I am indeed sorry. Rash- 
leigh, you black rascal, why did you not tell me the 
captain was here?” 

“I did but call to hear a message to your niece, 
Colonel,” Jarrat answered. “I have delivered it. 
I must offer apologies for being an intruder at such 
a moment.” 

“Tut!” said the colonel. “Rashleigh, set that 
tray here. Another glass for the captain. Captain, 
we drink unending happiness to a fair woman and 
a gallant cavalier !” 

Jarrat raised the slim glass with its topaz liquid 
and his smile lingered darkly on Anne’s face still 
anger-white. The smile hid a quality that made her 
shiver. 

“A fair woman,” he repeated, “and — a noble gen- 
tleman! What more pleasant toast? Now must I 
leave you and back to Williamsburg. Mistress, I 
kiss your hand. Marquis, my most blithe felicita- 
tions. Colonel, I beg you will not disturb yourself ; 
I will get my horse myself. Gentlemen, I bid you 
good day !” 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE HOUR AND THE MAN 

The tension in Virginia was grown thin. Again 
and again the burly Earl of Dunmore prorogued the 
Assembly on the pretext of popular excitement. 
The burgesses submitted with a bow, and the fiddles 
played in their town-houses. Dunmore thought 
himself a diplomat and went on wining his Tory 
favorites at the palace. But under the music was 
an ominous muttering. 

Hews came of the king’s speech on the opening 
of Parliament. The Colonies’ protests were “un- 
warranted attempts to obstruct the commerce of 
this kingdom by unlawful combinations/’ and 
showed “a most daring spirit of resistance and dis- 
obedience to the law.” This pronouncement was 
received in Williamsburg with an intense astonish- 
ment. 

And what, meantime, had Henry been doing? 

Restless, eager, he had ridden hither and thither 
like a sallow shadow — at court houses calling the 
315 


216 


HEAETS COUKAGEOUS 


minute-men — overseeing the election of the Com- 
mittees recommended by the Congress — at Alberti’s 
poring over lists with Jefferson — uniting North 
and South in a network of nerves, laboring, tire- 
less and convincing. 

It is a thing to note, since rebellion commonly 
springs from the people rather than from the qual- 
ity, that it was contrary in Virginia. There the 
aristocracy was not Tory. There were few enough 
like my Lord Fairfax, who, born noble, held nobly 
to their loyalty. Those who held with the king, 
besides the toad-eaters, were for the most part the 
lower classes, office-holders, tradesmen who looked 
for sales, lawyers just over from London. The 
stanchest rebels were the great landed planters. 
Sedition was in the club-room and the parlor; one 
must to the tavern-bar for toasts to the king. 

And so came about this strange thing: That 
Williamsburg, — the miniature copy of the Court 
of St. J ames, aping the manners of the royal palace, 
its old church graveyard and college chapel standing 
for Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s — that this 
spot should prove “The Heart of the Eebellion.” 
If this fact alone remained, it might well make the 
world wonder at +he enduring blindness of the king’s 
ministers and whether God had not, indeed, covered 
their eyes because He would have it so. 


THE HOUR AND THE MAN 217 


It was little George cared for the action of the 
first Congress, halting, ineffectual, or for the petitions 
of British merchants. He had set his jaw. In 
vain the Earl of Chatham moved in the House of 
Lords to withdraw the troops from Boston. In- 
stead, the Colonies received a bill offering pardon 
to repentant rebels, and the patriots of Virginia 
heard with shocked surprise that this excepted Pat- 
rich Henry! 

On the day this news was printed in the Wil- 
liamsburg Gazette, Henry and Jefferson met at 
Alberti’s and set out on horseback for Richmond. 
There, in St. John’s Church, the new Virginia Con- 
vention, mindful of the bloody threats of the sinis- 
ter governor, had elected to meet, and thither had 
gone a half of Williamsburg, leaving Dunmore with 
his troops at his palace to bite his nails in im- 
potent anger. 

The twenty-third of March dawned over Rich- 
mond’s unwonted bustle in a quivering wizard haze 
of intense blue, where cloud-puffs swam like lazily 
pluming swans. Anne had arrived the night be- 
fore at Goochland and drove in that morning in the 
Payne chariot. Spring was up — the earth quick 
with it. All along the way wild crab-apple boughs 
droned with clinging bees, and by the snake-fence 
rows of peach trees had pitched their tents of bloom. 


218 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


She met Henry in front of the Indian Queen Inn 
and walked with him up toward the church-yard, 
now filling with a vast throng. 

“Tell me/’ she questioned eagerly. “Will it 
come to-day?” 

He looked down at her with that rare smile which 
seemed to be the higher part of him, gilding and 
transfiguring his other self. “What faith you have 
in me !” he said. 

“I know,” she answered. “I have seen it in your 
face. No one in Virginia can do it save you — 
none of them! It must be the voice before the 
arm.” 

“The spark before the explosion,” he muttered. 
“And the train is nearly laid.” His hands moved 
restlessly. 

“I have longed — prayed for some new overt act 
of Dunmore’s that should be spark to powder. But 
he lies low. And it must come from us. You 
were right when you said that, last fall at Winches- 
ter. Boston is trodden on, but she lies quiet. The 
Colonies look to us. It is the voice of the South 
— of Virginia that is wanting.” 

He stopped. Jefferson was hasting toward them. 
He bowed to Anne. 

“Have you heard the buzz from London?” he 
asked Henry hurriedly. “ *Tis all among the dele- 


THE HOUE AND THE MAN 219 


gates. ’Tis declared that our petitions to the king 
are graciously received, that all the acts will be re- 
pealed save the admiralty and declaratory, and that 
North and Dartmouth will be replaced.” 

“Aye,” burst Henry fiercely. “Another Tory 
tale. And they will waver again. Tom, Tom, it 
must be now or never !” 

He stopped abruptly and strode across the church- 
yard over the matted ivy on the shrunken mounds, 
and, threading his way between the old slate tomb- 
stones, upright like black lichened coffin-lids, en- 
tered the edifice. 

From her seat in the west gallery, whither Jef- 
ferson had taken her, Anne surveyed the scene be- 
low. 

The first proceedings interested her little — the 
reading of Jamaica’s late memorial to the king — 
and her gaze wandered. Through the open win- 
dows she could hear the hum of the great crowd 
about the building and catch a glimmer of the 
foaming James. The space below her was packed 
and full of a strange intentness. 

Here and there she could see faces which she 
knew. The ladies of Richmond were scattered 
through both galleries. Freneau and young St. 
George Tucker were leaning over the rail opposite. 


22$ 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Jefferson and Colonel Benjamin Harrison of Berke- 
ley sat together just below Peyton Randolph the 
president. 

Colonel Washington sat far back, hands on knees, 
quiet and meditating, and just below her Mr. 
Thomas Nelson shifted nervously in his seat, turn- 
ing his eyes now there, now here. 

Well to the front sat Richard Henry Eee of Chan- 
tilly, “the gentleman of the silver hand”; the black 
bandage he wore over his hand fascinated her. She 
had heard it said he wore it to hide a wound he got 
swan-shooting on the Potomac. 

Her attention came back with a start as she 
heard the resolution, in answer to Jamaica, that 
“it is the most ardent wish of this Colony, and wa 
are persuaded of the whole continent of North 
America, to see a speedy return to those halcyon 
days when we lived a free and happy people.” As 
she looked down at Henry, Anne saw that he was 
scribbling on a scrap of paper. 

There was a hush as he arose and a buzz of ex- 
pectancy as he mounted the rostrum. He held in 
his hand the paper upon which he had been scrib- 
bling. 

Anne felt a touch of disappointment at the cold, 
measured quality of his tone. With that flicker- 


THE HOUR AND THE MAN 221 


ing half-smile which meant dissent, he moved an 
amendment to the Jamaica resolutions. He read 
without a gesture, in pronunciation as plain as 
homespun. His voice moved evenly, almost care- 
lessly, over the periods. 

But, as he progressed, the Assembly awoke with a 
shock, and Anne saw a certain ripple, almost of 
alarm, surge over it. Henry had spoken the 
phrase, “our inestimable rights and liberties. 5 ’ 

At that moment the speaker raised his voice, and 
the last words came challenge-like, the snap of a 
whip — “We do resolve, therefore, that this Colony 
he put in a state of defense and that there he a 
committee to prepare a plan for embody ing, arm- 
ing and disciplining such a number of men as may 
be sufficient for that purpose ” 

Anne looked at Henry in the black clothes and 
tie-wig which set off his face, and drew a breath. 
The humility, the diffidence, the modesty of address 
were gone, and in their place was sternness. Even 
his voice had grown harsh, as though in menace, 
and on the Convention, uncertain and wavering, 
those lovers of the “halcyon days, 55 the menace fell. 
It was the plunge, from hesitation to resolve, from 
expostulation to powder. The fire had fallen! 

Henry knew his men. All these years he had 


222 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


been learning them — drawing them out, question- 
ing, story-telling, watching effects, experimenting 
in their emotions. 

. His eye held every man within those walls. He 
turned it upon Richard Henry Lee, and he, his pol- 
ished oratory forgot, hurled a blunt second at the 
chair. 

Mr. Pendleton, Colonel Harrison limping from 
the gout, and Colonel Richard Bland got upon their 
feet with arched frowns, barking that such action 
was “premature,” and at the word Anne saw a 
pale scorn burn Henry’s face. These, who had so 
lately sat in the Continental Congress, prated of 
“dignified patience,” “filial respect and discretion,” 
“the relenting of the sovereign,” “the nakedness 
of the Colonies.” 

They were to see more clearly later, when one 
of them was to sign at Philadelphia the paper 
which struck from the British realm a territory 
far exceeding its whole extent under the Plantag- 
enets and Tudors. 

Anne had afterward no certain recollection of 
how Henry began in answer; all impression was 
swallowed up in that thrill which held every hearer. 
His long, thin visage was extra-dark and there was 
no blood in his sallow cheeks. Under his straight 
forehead and knit, black brows, his eyes, penetrating. 


THE HOUR AND THE MAN 223 


gray -black, sunk in his head, turned chameleon- 
like. 

A surpassing instrument is the human voice! 
Byrd, who had so often heard Henry hallooing across 
the fields, or laughing at his own humors, heard 
his voice now as something utterly unaccustomed — 
some master trumpet sound which made all under 
it flush and pale as to the cry of meeting metal. 
It has been said that he spoke as Homer wrote. 

“Shall we shut our eyes— -we wise men struggling 
for liberty — and listen to the song of the siren till 
she transforms us to beasts?” he cried. “Shall 
we, having eyes, see not, and, having ears, hear 
not the tidings of our temporal salvation? For 
my part, I will know the worst and I will provide 
for it. I can not judge the future but by the past, 
and by the past how shall you solace yourselves? 
What is there in the conduct of the British min- 
istries of the past ten years to justify hope?” 

As he went on, passion crept over his face like 
the wind that precedes a storm, his lean neck was 
scarlet and corded with white lines, and his eyes 
glared hollowly. 

“Do you regard the insidious smiles with which 
our petitions are received? Be not betrayed with 
a kiss !” 

Sitting in a quiver of feeling, with fingers clasp- 


224 : 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


ing the gallery ledge, Anne felt the shaken pulses 
of the audience. Under the intrepid metaphor she 
saw the messenger of the Colonial Assembly stand- 
ing before the king’s attorney-general entreating 
that Virginia had souls to be saved as well as En- 
gland, and the brutish answer: “Damn your souls! 
Make tobacco ” She saw the Colonies supplicat- 
ing on their knees, spurned, contemned, spit upon. 
She saw chains forging, navies building, armies 
gathering. She saw British ministers, like harpies, 
with cold eyes upon the green of the Americas. 

Henry’s voice had risen louder, more intense, 
and his colorless features and eyes of fire had be- 
come terrible to look upon. He sat upon the 
whirlwind. The very walls seemed to rock with 
vibrations. 

“There is no longer any room for hope! If we 
wish to be free ... if we mean to preserve 
those privileges for which we have been so long 
contending ... if we mean not to abandon 
the struggle we have vowed never to abandon until 
its object be obtained . . then we must fight. 
We must fight! An appeal to arms, to the God of 
Hosts, is all that is left us.” 

More than one, listening, like Francis Byrd, felt 
the king’s cause shrivel from their hearts. Lean- 
ing far over the gallery, Anne saw young St. George 


THE HOTJK AND THE MAH 225 


Tucker, his face as strained as hers. To his eyes it 
was a Cato of TJtica awing the Gauls who had pro- 
faned the Koman Senate — a Daniel reading the hand- 
writing to Belshazzar’s thousand lords — a St. Paul 
calling from the hill of Athens — a Fate crying a 
trumpet doom from heaven: “We must fight!” 

Throughout that throng, sitting on the benches 
and standing in the aisles, men leaned forward be- 
side themselves, their faces pale, sick with excite- 
ment, staring at the speaker. 

Anne dragged her eyes from Henry’s. Amid 
the sea, there was one face that had not moved a 
line. It was Colonel Washington’s. He sat stone- 
like, as immovable as a bishop at his prayers, his 
hands still upon his knees. He was as a soldier 
should be — cool of head and saving passion for the 
hand. And as a soldier, he was slow to disalle- 
giance. But cold as he seemed when Henry bent 
the wills of that assembly and whipped the con- 
servatives to the wall, there was a glitter in his eye 
that leaped to flame behind the quiet mask. 

“They tell us that we are weak. When shall we 
be stronger? Will it be next week, or next year? 
When we are totally disarmed and when a British 
guard is in every house? Shall we lie still till our 
enemies have bound us hand and foot? We cry 
‘peace, peace,’ but there is no peace. Why stand we 


226 


HEAKTS COURAGEOUS 


here idle? What do you wish? We are three 
millions of people, armed in the holy cause of lib- 
erty and invincible! We shall not fight our battle 
alone! The war is inevitable . . . and let it 
come. Let it comer 

Henry’s voice, which had been like a battle shout, 
sank in his throat. His form bowed itself in the 
attitude of a galley slave. On his crossed wrists 
the felon’s manacles seemed actually to be visible. 
His very tone thrilled helplessness and heart-broken 
agony. 

“And if we chose,” he said heavily, “there is no 
retreat save slavery. Our chains are ready. We 
may hear their clanking on the plains of Boston! 
Is life so dear, or peace so sweet as to be so pur- 
chased ?” 

He lifted his chained hands toward heaven. 
“Forbid it,” he prayed, “Almighty God!” 

With the words he straightened. His tendons 
strained against the fetters and they fell from his 
wrists, as he sent a look at the quaking loyalists of 
the house that chilled their blood. 

“I know not what course others may take.” Oh, 
the hissing scorn of that now triumphant voice! 
“But as for me — as for me — give me liberty, or give 
me death!” 

Anne heard what followed as in a dream. She 


THE HOUR AND THE MAN 227 


heard the studied oratory of Richard Henry Lee, 
aided by the elegant gestures he practised before 
the mirror. She heard Thomas Nelson, the richest 
man in Virginia, no longer shifting in his seat, now 
crying out that if British troops should be landed 
in the county of which he was lieutenant he would 
obey no forbidding, but call his militia and repel 
them at the water’s edge. 

She saw standing on the Committee appointed 
to carry out Henry’s resolution to arm the Colony 
— greatest marvel of all, — the very men who had 
cried out against it — Mr. Pendleton, Colonel Har- 
rison, Colonel Bland. 

What had come was transformation. Where had 
been doubt was confidence, where had been cross- 
purpose was unity. It was but a spark, blown by 
the wind of destiny, but it illumined the torch. It 
lightened the shadow that had been over a people, its 
impulses and aspirations. It lit forge-fires through- 
out the land, and in their glare, face to face, there- 
after stood two passions each recognizing the other. 
One lustful, one sublime; both naked and un- 
ashamed. Oppression and Liberty. 

At that moment, a vast army began forming. 
From those walls, in which, later, Benedict Arnold 
was to quarter his British marauders, the message 
flew that day. One by one the battalions gathered, 


228 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


strong but invisible. They were not called by 
drum or trumpet. They had no camp, nor field nor 
garrison. But at plow, in shop or in chamber the 
recruits silently answered the summons and stood 
ready. 

It had been The Hour and The Man. The Hour 
had started the initial impulse of the Revolution 
and The Man was Patrick Henry. 

On the following Saturday, as the planters were 
riding again into Williamsburg, Governor Dunmore 
issued a proclamation forbidding the appointment 
of Virginian delegates to the new Continental Con- 
gress, and next day the planters crowded Bruton 
Church, whose flagged aisles and whitewashed walls 
echoed a sermon by the Reverend Mr. Price, preach- 
ing in his gown upon a bitter text to be found in 
the Book of Joshua: 

“And I have given you a land for which ye did 
not labor ... of the vineyards and olive - 
yards which ye planted not do ye eat. 

“Now, therefore , . . . put away the gods 
which your fathers served on the other side of the 
flood.” 

And the Reverend John Camm, president of 
William and Mary College, returning from the 
service with his Tory nostrils offended, found his 


THE HOUR AND THE MAN 229 


students indulging in a joyful riot over the follow- 
ing, of no uncertain authorship, printed in large 
hand upon a placard suspended over his prayer- 
desk in the lecture-room: 

Not only from British Dependence, but also — 

From our Nolle King Log with his tooth-full of 
brains. 

From the caitiff Lord North, who would bind us in 
chains. 

From the group at St. James's that slight our peti- 
tions. 

And fools that are waiting for further submissions — 
Libera nos, Domine! 

From Bishops in Britain who butchers are grown. 
From slaves that would die for a smile from the 
throne. 

From lords of the Council who fight against freedom. 
Who still follow on where delusion shall lead 'em — 
Libera nos, Domine! 

From the valiant Dunmore, with his crew of banditti. 
Who bullies Virginians at Williamsburg city. 

Bo deeply bemired with his stupid misleading s 
As to dream that his pen can stop Congress pro - 
ceedings — 

Libera nos, Domine! 


CHAPTEK XV 


THE DANCE ABOVE THE VOLCANO 

^Shut the door,” the earl commanded. 

Foy did so, and returned to his seat across from 
the governor, in the arras-walled council chamber 
at the palace. He sent a snaky look at Armand, 
who sat at ease in egg-blue satin and lace, attired 
for the evening’s rout. And the look was malev- 
olent. 

Lord Dunmore’s face this night focused slow hate 
and he sat hunched in his chair. “Has Conolly 
come from the ship yet, Foy?” he asked. 

The other shook his head. 

“Hell’s tooth I” raved the earl, leaping from 
his seat and striding up and down. “I’ll show 
them! To-morrow they shall whistle for their 
powder! There are the Indians still, and then the 
slaves. If I have to raise the plantations, I’ll 
bring these sniveling rebels to their knees! Free- 
dom, forsooth! ’Tis the king’s hand rules and my 
hand for the king’s in the Virginias 1” 

230 


DANCE ABOVE THE VOLCANO 231 


He paused in front of Armand and beat the 
table with his fist: 

“And the slipperiest of them all you shall snare 
us, my fine Marquis. ’Tis Patrick Henry ! Haunch 
of a basted swine! A nice picture his tongue licks 
up for the clods! He is in Williamsburg to-night, 
and he shall not leave it till he sails for London 
and a gallows-tree!” He strode off again, in a 
rage, his face working like a Satan’s. 

At last he left off. “Give him his orders, Foy,” 
he said thickly. 

Foy leaned forward, chin in palm, and spoke: 

“You will write a message now to Henry which 
I shall dictate. It will state that you are in re- 
ceipt of news from France affecting the Colonies 
and desire his immediate presence at a place which 
I shall name. You shall go thither to await Henry 
and detain him there till my own arrival with an 
armed file. Do I make myself clear?” 

The young foreigner waved his embroidered arm 
lightly. “I beg to remind his Excellency of our 
bargain.” 

The governor faced around with something like 
a snarl and sat down heavily. 

“I was to write certain letters to De Vergennes, 
King Louis’s minister, and to Beaumarchais, — let- 
ters in the hand of the Marquis de la Trouerie, 


232 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


signed with his signature and seal. These have 
been written. They have said of the situation in 
this Colony only what you would have them say, 
have they not? And you have sent them. Is it 
not so?” 

The earl narrowed his eyes. 

"I have done your Excellency’s bidding. You 
are not satisfied. Very good. Monsieur. We turn 
the page, then.” 

“Ho !” said Foy. “ ’Tis not as difficult for a noble- 
man to get money, eh. Master Clerk? What fine 
colonial bird have you plucked now? V faith, a 
nice swagger of a sudden! Marry, art going to 
wed with a plantation, then?” 

Lord Dunmore snorted and threw himself for- 
ward in his chair. 

“Nay !” he shouted. “The bargain ends not here, 
my lily-livered poacher! Letters, haith, when there 
is open rebellion? Small need I have for pen-work 
now! ’Tis neck-twisting I am for, and you shall 
aid me, by the Lord! with a bait for that stubborn 
rump Henry!” 

Foy drew forward pen and paper. “Will you 
write?” he asked. 

“No,” said Armand composedly. 

His Lordship’s face, from livid, turned a voL 
canic purple. 


DANCE ABOVE THE VOLCANO 233 


“Your Excellency/’ went on the young man, 
“will recall my social position. Spy? Betray? 
Surely not. Messieurs!” He moved his hand as 
though dismissing an indiscreet pleasantry. 

The earl hit off an oath with head thrust for- 
ward, his jaw dropped like a lion lapping blood. 

Armand had risen. “I shall see you to-night 
amid the ladies. Monsieur?” he asked of Foy. “A 
very good night to your Excellency.” 

“I shall he eager to carry out any plans your 
Excellency may be pleased to favor,” said Foy as 
the door closed. 

The Apollo Eoom that evening was a blaze of 
splendor. To and fro moved belles and macaronis, 
dame and ruffled squire; the former stiff in bro- 
cades, the latter in satin and laces, clanking 
carven dress-swords, tapping carven snuff-boxes, 
bowing in greeting, bending in the gavotte. The 
air was fragrant with the first flowers, with per- 
fume and scented powder from head-dress and wig. 
Over all was a glare of candle-light from many- 
pronged sconces upon the walls and through the 
buzz of wit and raillery the fiddles in the corner 
wove a constant tune. 

It was the last dance of the old regime. All 
knew the nearness of the cloud — all heard the rum- 


234 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


ble of the storm. But courtesy in Virginia was 
as the grain in wood. There it was not until the 
last that Tories had perforce to leave the Colony; 
when all who were not Tories turned Democrats 
and went into the Revolutionary armies; when gen- 
tlemen took the field and their ladies toiled at home 
with lint or homespun. 

Now, though the bolt was speeding, until it fell, 
Tory and Whig met and danced in tavern and in 
hall. Smile and bow changed not a whit. Sparkle 
was over all. 

But it was only a shell of gaiety; the core was 
a volcano. 

In the outer hall of the Raleigh, behind the 
shifting throng of gallants at the door of the Apollo 
Room, Jarrat looked across a minuet, and in 
glimpses caught between the stately moving figures, 
he saw Anne. 

Never had she seemed so beautiful, her head 
golden-misted in the light, the long, fringing lashes 
shading the dusky blue of her eyes. She stood, 
full-veined, exultant, under the white candles, her 
dress dove-colored, flowered in large trees, with 
cherry-tinted stays trimmed in blue and silver. 
On her hair, drawn high, sat a web-like capuchin- 

Jarrat’s face sprang scarlet — a hopeless, helpless 
rage of bitter longing. With him it was moth and 


DANCE ABOVE THE VOLCANO 235 


flame. And the wing-singeing had become a joy 
of torture. 

The Marquis de la Trouerie passed into the as- 
sembly. Gallants crowded to greet him. Brooke 
fawned upon his hand. He became a sun with a 
train of lesser satellites. He moved leisurely 
through the throng, answering the shafts of the 
wits, bowing to plump Mrs. Byrd among the 
dowagers, approaching the end of the room, where 
Anne, beside Colonel Tillotson’s soldierly black, 
held her constant court, gilded by the effulgence 
which the open worship of the favorite of fashion 
had thrown upon her. 

Very lovely she looked to Breckinridge Cary, 
just arrived on a visit from Lancaster. He watched 
her from where he chatted with Byrd, whom he 
had last seen in Covent Garden shortly before he 
left England for home. He had known her from 
a child at Gladden Hall. The Old World, he 
thought, could never have bred her — she was fruit 
of the New, of its fire and full blood, its daring, 
its pride and prodigality — born of its dewy valleys 
and its untouched, cavernous forests — a thing that 
must have withered in the heavy air of London. 

“Yonder comes our glass of fashion, Mr. Cary,” 
boasted Brooke, joining them. “Ah, you can al- 
ways tell your real nobleman! What a waistcoat!” 


236 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


he simpered, ogling it rapturously. “Damme if 
Master Coolbaugh shall not cut me one like it l” 

Cary looked with a flash of recognition that 
broadened into a stare of amazement. He saw a 
figure encased splendidly in satin, with rare point 
dropping from the sleeves, jewels gleaming from 
the ruffles, a sword-hilt on which blood-rubies 
burned, a breast sparkling with a bediamonded or- 
der. 

“The marquis is late,” Brooke added. 

“The marquis ?” Cary’s eyes opened wide 
“That,” said Byrd, “is the Marquis de la Trouerie.” ' 
Cary bent closer. There could be no mistake. 
Ho mistake ! And all Williamsburg deceived ! The 
circle of beaux parted, rolled back at the new- 
comer’s approach, and Anne’s face lifted itself, 
startled and joyful — a one look which told it all 
to Cary, flash-like. Oh, the pity of it! 

Jarrat, in his red coat, saw too from the hall; 
saw her smiling, but not to his words, glowing, but 
not for him, and evil crept into his face till every 
feature seemed a sin. 

“Sweet Sir Lobster!” said a lackadaisical voice 
behind him. “Peaceful as ever I see, and with uni- 
form all unsullied. V faith, I warrant no red- 
skin might outstrip you on the far Scioto.” 


DANCE ABOVE THE VOLCANO 237 


“Not now. Master Freneau,” said Jarrat, breath- 
ing heavily. “Not now ! To-night I am occupied.” 

“Alas ! Poor Scarlet ! Is it not a raree-show ? 
— mayhap Twill inspire me to an ode. Shall I 
sing a Trouerie caparisoned for the lists of love? 
See! To be gazed at so • . • is it not worth 
a prince’s ransom? Oh, adorable!” 

He paused, his mocking black eyes on the other’s 
smoldering face. “Behold the discomfited !” he 
went on. “Think you Mistress Tillotson has aught 
for the spruce coxcombs with diamond shoe-buckles 
and a macaroon elbow for snuff-taking? Nay, nay! 
Nor for a king’s spy with a rusted sword !” 

Jarrat for once had no retort. The outer door 
opened and Foy and three soldiers in his Majesty’s 
uniform appeared. Foy carried a folded paper. 

The four entered the inner door and stepped 
on to the crowded floor together. Freneau and Jar- 
rat both pressed after them, the former in eager 
curiosity and the latter to slip into the background. 

Anne stood with the marquis, her fingers on his 
arm, awaiting a minuet. The fiddles were weav- 
ing the first meshes of the tune. She felt his arm 
suddenly tighten, his clasp take closer hold. 

“What is it?” she asked. There was a bustle at 
the lower end of the room. 


238 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


He looked down at her. Something in his voice 
smote her. “Remember what you said to me at 
Greenway Court . . . what you said when we 
stood under the pines by Gladden HalL If 
I should come to be mean and low and dishonor- 
able before the world . c » 99 

“Look !” she cried. “They come this way. What 
can they want?” 

“Listen ! — low before the world, but still loving 
— still loving you ! — ” 

An indefinable tremor came to her. The dancers 
were beginning to stop. Colonel Tillotson had 
turned his head. 

Foy, followed by the soldiers, had paused in 
front of them, and was pointing to Armand. “Take 
him !” said he. 

The fiddles broke off with a screech. The whole 
floor was stricken suddenly hushed, suddenly mo- 
tionless. Anne could hear in Foy’s throat his 
hoarse, savage breathing as the soldiers stepped for- 
ward. The assembly gasped, thunder-struck. 

Then, instantly there was an uproar. 

“Stop!” they insisted. A dozen dress-swords,, 
among them Freneau’s, came out clicking. The 
ladies shrank, the gentlemen came up furious, mut- 
tering curses against the royal governor. 

“What is the meaning of this outrage, sir?” 


DAHCE ABOVE THE VOLCANO 239 


Colonel Tillotson stood tall and threatening. “By 
what right lay you hands upon the person of the 
marquis ?” 

“‘The marquis!’” said Foy. “I want no mar- 
quis. This is no more marquis than I am. I have 
here a warrant, signed by the royal governor of 
Virginia, for the seizure of the person of one Louis 
Armand, calling himself the Marquis de la Trouerie, 
swindler, impostor and conspirer against the 
peace of his Majesty’s Colony. A fine sport he 
has made of you, ladies and gentlemen! Will you 
come hence peaceably,” to Armand, “or shall I have 
you dragged?” 

The hearers wavered. Mrs. Byrd had fixed her 
eyes on Anne’s face, and in them was a tiny, feline 
glitter. Anne’s hands were clasped about Ar- 
mand’s arm and a spot of indignant red burned 
either cheek. 

“Oh, infamous!” she said clearly. “’Tis a lie!” 

“Sir,” asked Colonel Tillotson of Armand, his 
tone halting, “will you answer this?” 

The young Frenchman’s eyes were on Anne with 
a look ineffably tender, struggling with a sudden 
anguished shadow. White lines had fallen around 
his lips. 

“Colonel Tillotson — gentlemen,” said Foy, 

“there is not a particle of doubt, though the ras- 


240 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


cal has been clever enough to deceive even his Ex- 
cellency. Lack of proof has prevented his earlier 
exposure. This man crossed on the same ship as 
the nobleman he represents himself to he. The 
passengers of the vessel knew him in his true char- 
acter.” 

“’Twas the Two Sisters,” Anne declared. Her 
eyes sought out Cary. “Why — why , — you were 
on that ship! You left her in Hampton Roads. 
You must know. Tell them he lies!” Her tone 
was certain and defiant. 

Cary’s lips twitched. He looked at Armand, 
where he stood straight and quiet, his eyes on 
Anne’s, and he seemed again to see that lithe form 
hurling itself against the brutal mate of the ship 
for the hurt of an outcast woman’s heart. He 
struggled against a wish to cry out that the mat- 
ter was not his business and fly. He dared not 
look at Anne, knowing what he must see there 
when he spoke. 

“Mr. Cary was on the ship?” asked Foy dis- 
tinctly. 

Anne drew a long breath and a pallor suddenly 
struck her face. But she bent forward and laid 
her hand on Cary’s arm. 

“Answer !” she bade him. “Who is he ?” 


DANCE ABOVE THE VOLCANO 241 


Cary raised his hand. “He is a gentleman, and 
he is a brave man. Beyond, I ask not !” 

“Is he the Marqnis de la Trouerie?” Anne’s 
voice was clear and firm. 

“He was my friend!” cried Cary. 

“Is he the Marquis de la Trouerie?” 

Cary’s look turned to her. He saw the grayness 
in her cheek and the brave light in her eyes burned 
his heart cold. He looked from side to side, — at 
the sneering laugh of Foy’s, at the calm, stern even- 
ness of Colonel Tillotson, at Anne’s face, now grown 
deadly white. 

“Is he the Marquis de la Trouerie?” 

“Answer, my friend,” said Armand. 

Cary’s voice was husky as he spoke. “He is the 
marquis’s secretary,” said he. 

The men standing nearest drew away from Ar- 
mand at this. Anne had given a flinching start as 
if smitten by the flying terror of a bullet. It 
seemed to her that present, future, dreams, realty, 
heaven, earth, eternity, were all slipping away from 
her. Armand touched her hand gently, his face 
torn with conflict. 

“You told me .... if the man you loved 
...” The words failed. 

She raised her great eyes to his. “Are you the 
Idarquis de la Trouerie?” 


342 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


A whitening pain had conquered his face. 

“I am Louis Armand,” he said, as one whose 
heart is broken. 

Anne closed her eyes and stood trembling, and in 
that moment he dropped his arms to his sides and 
turned to the waiting soldiers. 

“Take him away!” said Foy. 

Seeing, Anne struggled piteously to speak. She 
stood an instant with both hands stretched out 
after him; then she slipped back into Colonel Til- 
lotson’s arms. 

The dance was breaking up as the door opened 
for Armand and his guards. The first streaks of 
dawn were piling the low eastern sky with a pale- 
green tone like glacier ice, against which the dis- 
tant trees, new leafing, raised sharp-budded spran- 
gles. Somewhere an early mock-bird was sing- 
ing his heart out. 

Then across the quiet struck discord. A far 
babble drew suddenly nearer. There was a din and 
a scurry of crying. Windows were opened. 

“Haste!” fretted Foy. “To his Excellency with 
the prisoner. Conolly has been seen. The alarm 
is out and the town will rise!” 

Gallants and dames issuing into the street in their 
ball finery, the ladies’ rouged cheeks faded in the 
early light, saw a horseman who rode by bawling: 


DANCE ABOVE THE VOLCANO 243 


“The powder ? the powder !” he shouted. “Dim- 
more’s men have robbed the magazine !” And with 
the shout, the great bell of the palace began tolling 
the summons calling all soldiers of the king to 
assemble. 

“The governor has come to his senses at last,” 
Mrs. Byrd said with satisfaction as she came out to 
her chair. “We shall presently see these precious 
rebels scampering to their holes. You must go, I 
suppose, Francis.” 

“Aye, mother,” he answered, his eyes bright with 
Anne’s pain, and gave her his cheek to kiss. ' 

But he did not go to the palace. The resignation 
of his commission went to the earl instead, and he 
himself hastened to the narrow house in Duke of 
Gloucester Street, which bore the name Alberti and 
the sign of the violin. It was long before he saw 
his mother again. 

The volcano had burst. There is to be small doubt 
from this time where any Virginian stands. By 
noon the bank of the James River at Burwell’s 
Ferry, where lies the man-o’-war Magdalen, whither 
Dunmore’s crafty agent Conolly has marched his 
marines with the powder raped from the Williams- 
burg magazine, is black with threatening men. 

Steadily numbers swell the crowd that chokes 


244 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Duke of Gloucester Street — city councillors, some in 
furtive delight at this loyal ruse, others stamping 
angrily, with powdered wigs askew and hands seek- 
ing the hilts of their dress-swords — sober men 
mounting and dismounting horses — ladies, brilliant 
as ever, in red-heeled shoes and clocked stockings, 
eager, excited, voluble. Here are all the aristocracy, 
the blue-bloods of the valley planters; here are the 
duller-garbed burgesses of the inner counties. 

The mob surges up and down past a square, prim 
house of glazed brick brought as ballast in the to- 
bacco ships. It is fronted by a little garden, through 
which leads a path between exact flower-beds of 
white lupins, love-in-a-mist and Canterbury bells, 
and here in his chair sits old Baron Fairfax, 
leaning on his cane, listing to the tumult, knowing 
it means anger against the royal authority, but not 
bending his stubborn loyalty enough to pass beyond 
the gate. He is all a-quiver with rage at the 
seizure of the marquis. 

“Fools !” he storms, grinding his teeth. “Idiots ! 
I will to the governor so soon as this cursed uproar 
ceases. The king shall hear of it \” 

In his stronghold on Palace Street the royal 
governor sits glowering, listening to the hum. He 
has the powder; let the rebels rave. In the night 
he has converted his palace into a fort. Cannon 


DANCE ABOVE THE VOLCANO 245 


look from the windows; rows of muskets are lying 
on the floor to arm the household. 

The Council, hurriedly summoned, are met in the 
library — a few smiling, Colonel Byrd wavering, 
some indignant. At the indignant ones the gov- 
ernor rages like a wild beast, vowing that if vio- 
lence be offered him by the people he will proclaim 
freedom to the slaves and lay Williamsburg in 
ashes. 

The streets are in a boil. Betsy, who has wept 
an hour for Anne’s sake, looks on from the Byrd 
porch, while her mother, having heard of the de- 
fection of Francis, watches red-eyed behind her 
bed-room curtains. 

The crowd has centered opposite in the wide 
square at the foot of Palace Street. There are 
cries: “The palace!” “To the palace!” The 
mass moves restlessly as if meditating an attack. 
Slower counsel prevails. There is a hubbub of 
talk. 

Then a delegation is sent to the palace to de- 
mand the powder. Betsy sees them, four grave 
men, start from the crowd, go up the street, pass 
'the guards, enter the door. There is a wait. 

They return with their news. The wily earl 
has smoothed his rage, has heard them with courtesy ; 
he has received the report that the slaves are about 


246 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


to rise in an adjoining county — if the powder he 
needed at Williamsburg, he pledges his honor it 
shall be returned “in half an hour.” The delega- 
tion have seen the muskets. The crowd smolders 
— is nonplussed. 

The earl looks through an upper window and 
rubs his hands. These Virginians are no match 
for him! 

Ah, the end is not yet. He has still to reckon 
with a sallow man who sits in the upper room at 
Alberti’s. 

This man is to ride like a whirlwind to New 
Castle, make a fiery appeal to the Hanover volun- 
teers and to march back to Williamsburg at the 
head of five thousand men with arms in their 
hands. 

Before they reach the town a spark flies along the 
angry streets that turns them to a flame — it is the 
news of the Battle of Lexington! 

And when Patrick Henry marches into Duke of 
Gloucester Street, John Murray, Earl of Dunmore* 
you pay for that powder. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE PACKET 

The shadow of Anne’s grief hung heavy over 
Gladden Hall a few days later, where Henry and 
Colonel Tillotson sat alone in the library convers- 
ing. It was the eve of the former’s departure for 
the second Congress. 

“Patrick” — the colonel came out squarely — 
“what make you of this arrest of La Trouerie?” 

“There is something wrong. Colonel,” he an- 
swered. “And ’twill out. Mark me, that young 
man is no charlatan. I would stake my soul he 
is not of low character. You are judge enough of 
human nature to know that.” 

“Cary was on the ship. Besides, he admitted it 
himself, when he was seized at the Raleigh.” 

Henry leaped from his seat with an exclamation. 

“Granted he is not the marquis. The man is no 
impostor. I want nothing but that night at the 
King’s Arms in Winchester to convince me of that. 
My God! You should have seen him fteht Foy! 

m 


248 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Hang your marquises! Armand is a man, I tell 
you! What was there to gain by a vulgar masque- 
rade ?” 

Rashleigh at this juncture entered, hearing a 
salver. 

“Letter for Mars’ Henry,” said he. “Mars’ Ran- 
dolph’s Eb’nezer fotch it ober arter him fum Wil- 
liamsburg dis mawnin’.” 

“Why,” said Henry, breaking the seal, “ ’tis from 
Doctor Franklin. Business of the Colonies, surely. 
Stay — you shall hear it, — 

“London - , January 10, 1775. 

“‘Sir — Dr. Craik, who needs no introduction to 
you, on his return to Virginia, will see that this 
reaches your hand. It will inform you that M. dt 
Penet is arrived from Philadelphia. He aston- 
ished me much when he told me that it was too dis- 
creetly doubted in the Colonies as to the disposi- 
tion of the Court of France with regard to us. The 
English Court here has little of this doubt; indeed, 
there has been actual trepidation. The good news 
I send by this letter will show you that there was 
abundant ground for such fears. Hot only have 
King Louis and M. Turgot, his Minister of Finance, 
considered together by what means they might assist 
so unhappy and interesting a people, but I have just 


THE PACKET 


249 


learned that a nobleman of great family connection 
and great wealth is lately sailed for yonr Colony— 
an officer in the flower of his age, who has already 
proved his talents in Corsica. I am informed 
by our co-worker Beaumarchais, who is now here 
at the town-house of Lord Mayor Wilkes in Prince’s 
Court, that this gentleman’s judgment is much val- 
ued at Marseilles, and in case the state of the Cause 
in Virginia (which the king deems most impor- 
tant of the Southern Colonies) seems to warrant, 
he will doubtless he commissioned to make certain 
representations touching aid and comfort to come 
from France in the event of united hostilities. I 
am satisfied that any civilities and respect that may 
be shown M. the Marquis de la Trouerie will he 
serviceable to our affairs. His mission is of course 
secret. I shall inform no one else of this, trust- 
ing the information to your whole discretion. 

“ ‘I have the Honor to be, 

“‘Sir, 

“ ‘Your most obedient Servant, 

“‘B. Frankliit. 

‘“Patrick Henry, Esq., 

“ ‘Williamsburg, Virginia/ ” 

Henry read slowly, without a pause, while the 
other’s eyes did not leave his face; when he had 


250 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


finished* he looked up with an expression of min- 
gled satisfaction and puzzlement. 

“Marquis de la Trouerie!” Colonel Tillotson ex- 
claimed. “Armandos master, then, was the mes- 
senger of France ! And he is doubtless in Virginia 
now. But how dares the secretary pose as his mas- 
ter ?” 

i “Because the marquis is dead,” fell a heavy voice 
behind them. 

The host got up frowning. 

“Captain Jarrat,” said he brusquely, “I like not 
well these soft-footed intrusions. Nor, if I may 
say it, do I like the dress you wear. Times are 
come when I no longer welcome a coat of that color 
in my house.” 

A smoldering red rose to Jarrat’s cheek, but 
he spoke evenly. “I should beg pardon, Colonel, 
for an unceremonious intrusion into a conversa- 
tion. Rashleigh let me in.” 

“Damn Rashleigh !” said the colonel unmis- 
takably. 

“I rode to inquire for Mistress Tillotson,” the 
visitor continued; “but since I am unwelcome, why, 
I will betake myself home again.” 

“One moment. Colonel,” interposed Henry. 
“Captain, we spoke of a gentleman as you entered. 


THE PACKET 


251 


May I ask what basis you have for your informa- 
tion ?” 

Jarrat took out his pocketbook, drew forth a yel- 
low paper and handed it to Henry. “The Marquis 
de la Trouerie died en route to these Colonies and 
was buried at sea. There is the leaf from the log- 
book of the Two Sisters recounting the unhappy 
incident. The news of his death was suppressed 
in British interests.” 

“And the secretary?” Henry’s voice was calm. 

“The incident is now closed, gentlemen, and I 
violate no confidence. He was bought by the earl 
— for services.” 

“My God!” ejaculated Colonel Tillotson. “Are 
we never to know truth in this world? He was not 
an impostor and a charlatan. Ho. He was a Brit- 
ish spy!” 

“Why, then,” interrogated Henry, “did-Dunmore 
expose him?” 

“I exposed him.” 

“You !” the colonel cried. 

“I had crossed on the same ship and recognized 
him at Williamsburg. Discovering the true state 
of affairs, can you wonder. Colonel Tillotson, at 
my concern for the intimacy which I saw growing 
between your niece and this person? X think,” he 


252 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


said, masking a glow-worm gleam in his eyes, “that 
my feeling for Mistress Tillotson is not misunder- 
stood by you. I knew Lord Dunmore’s plan and 
I could not openly tell you the truth. Is it a won- 
der I forgot that I was a king’s man? I did the 
one thing left to me. I set afloat such suspicions 
that the governor, to save his own repute with Wil- 
liamsburg, was compelled to sacrifice his minion, 
to himself expose the imposture and to cry himself 
also deceived. I tell you thus much in confidence. 
Believe me, sir, I steered the best I knew between 
the hurt of a lady whom I honor and the gov- 
ernor’s displeasure. It was the Scylla of duty and 
the Charybdis of love. Colonel, I love your niece; 
and I would not see her suffer humiliation.” 

Colonel Tillotson rose and paced up and down 
the floor, plucking at the side-curls of his wig. 

“An what you tell us is true,” he said, medi- 
tating, “I have done you wrong. I am not over- 
kind to your colors, but I have a respect for hon- 
est loyalty. God knows ’tis scarce enough. May- 
hap I have been unjust. Will you be seated?” 

Jarrat sat down, his watchful eyes turning about 
the room, something strangely like expectancy in 
them. 

The colonel rang for his major-domo. 


THE PACKET 


253 


“Rashleigh,” said he soberly, “ask your Mis’ Anne 
to come to the library. And admit no one — no one. 
Do you hear?” 

“Yas, Marsa; yas, suh ! Nuttin’ but er grabe- 
yard ha’nt gwineter git by dat do’ !” 

“Poor child!” Henry’s tone was pitiful. “You 
mean to tell her? At least wait till your wife is 
returned.” 

“The sooner she hears some things the better for 
her; she has her share of pride. Never fear.” 

“The day I was last here, sir,” observed Jarrat, 
“she boasted she would wed him an he were a la- 
borer in your fields.” 

“Aye, maybe, but not if he were a conspirer 
against her country. My niece is a daughter of 
Virginia, sir!” And the master of Gladden Hall 
noisily took snuff to cover his feelings. Henry’s 
face was like a sphinx. 

While they waited, came a clatter of hoofs out- 
side; a moment later the hall door was flung open 
and Rashleigh was heard in excited jabbering. The 
colonel repeated an objurgation. 

The next instant he jumped to his feet and Jar- 
rat started as if at an apparition. Armand stood 
on the threshold, coarsely dressed, mud-splashed 
and pale. 


254 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


The newcomer’s look ignored the captain. He 
bowed to Colonel Tillotson and addressed himself 
to Henry: 

“Monsieur, I come to warn you that a detachment 
of Dunmore’s men is on its way hither from York- 
town to seize your person.” 

“The devil!” shot out the colonel like a javelin. 
“I thought the price the earl put on you, Patrick, 
was but brag. He dares violate my house, then. 
Mount at once and away by the North road.” 

Henry’s gaze had seemed to dart and play about 
the young Frenchman’s face like yellow summer 
lightning. “And what would the governor with 
me this time?” 

“To transport you to trial for high treason. It 
was plotted this day aboard the Fowey.” 

“From which you are escaped?” 

“Yes, Monsieur.” 

Jarrat’s voice entered: “To attack the residence 
of a Virginian gentleman without crown warrant 
is not so ready a thing, even for a royal governor; 
but a man may disappear by night from a lonely 
road and who to blame? Our fleeing marquis, with 
his nose for delicate deceits, is a likely cat’s-paw. 
Faugh ! I swear such overt folly of Dunmore’s will 
yet drive me into Whiggery!” 

Colonel Tillotson paused in perplexity, but Henry 


THE PACKET 


255 


looked at the speaker with a gaze keen and inscrut- 
able as an Indian’s above that flickering half-smile 
of his. 

“You have no time to spare. Monsieur. They 
were to leave the Fowey at sun-down. I implore 
you to haste.” 

“As well,” cautioned Jarrat, “to go by another 
way than the marquis anticipates.” 

“You liar !” said Armand, flaming on him. “This 
man was in the plot. He waits the troops here 
at this moment. Monsieur, I beseech . . ” 

He did not finish, stricken dumb by the entrance 
of Anne. She had caught her breath at sight of 
him and stood, statue-like, in the candle-light. 
Then she held out both arms and ran toward him 
with a glad cry: 

“Louis! They have released you! Oh, thank 
God! Thank God!” 

The young man did not speak; only a little 
spasm wrenched his features. But Jarrat did. 
“The jail-bird was slippery. Mistress,” he sneered. 

The colonel, who had reached her in a stride 
and pulled her back, dropped her arm at the look 
of offense and scorn she cast upon the speaker. 
“Anne !” he said, facing her rigidly. “Listen to 
me! This man is not only no nobleman — ” 

“I care naught!” she interrupted wildly. “I 


256 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


care not who he is ! I only know what he is to me l" 
A light dawned on Armand’s face with her words. 
He drew closer to her, as if wondering, afraid to 
trust his senses. She turned again to him. “I 
could not tell you — that night at the Raleigh. I 
had no time . . 99 

“But,” cried Colonel Tillotson, ‘die is a spy — • 
a hireling, child, bought to this deception to be- 
tray the Colonials!” 

“Sooner than that,” she declared, “would I be- 
lieve Captain Jarrat capable of an honest love! 
This is a lie of your making. Captain. He is no 
spy. Whatever he has done, ? twas not in dis- 
honor.” 

“Anne, Anne!” urged her uncle, “we have seen 
the proofs.” 

“You do not believe them?” Armand whispered. 

“No ! Ho ! Nor ever will !” 

The young man laughed out triumphantly, in 
sudden abandon. “You hear that. Messieurs? 
There is one that believes in me !” 

“Believes, aye and loves,” cried Anne and ran to 
him. He drew her close to his breast, murmuring 
soft words; her face was pale yet burning, her whole 
body thrilling with passion and defiance. 

“They can not destroy my faith in you!” she 


THE PACKET 


257 


breathed ; “I shall love and trust you always — always 
— always!” 

“She is bewitched,” Jar rat said with dry lips. 

“You hated him!” she blazed at him. “Oh, I 
know how you would creep and creep ! My friend,” 
turning to Henry — “my friend, do you believe this ?” 

Henry got up with a round oath. “No!” he 
swore. “By the Great Hay! I do not believe it!” 

Her fluttering cry of delight was stilled by Colonel 
Tillotson’s tense whisper, “Hark!” There was a 
dull drum of hoofs thudding over sod and with it 
Sweetlips’ fierce challenge. 

Simultaneously came a wail of terror from the 
kitchens and Rashleigh plunged in from the hall, 
his woolly head shaking with fear. 

“He sojers! He sojers!” he screeched. “Mars’ 
John, dee gwine kill y’all!” 

Jarrat rose to his feet. “You know how I can 
creep and creep, Mistress?” he said. “Well then, 
now you shall see how I can strike !” 

Anne had rushed instantly to the window and 
drawn the blind. “Troopers !” she cried. “The 
house is being surounded ! You have been pursued, 
Louis !” 

“’Twas true then!” frothed Colonel Tillotson. 
“Jarrat, had I a weapon, I would shoot you, I swear 
to God! There is one way, Patrick. Here, quick! 


258 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Through this hall and to the buttery. There is a 
small window. Speed, and God send you get safe 
away !” 

As Henry disappeared, Jarrat ran from the door, 
shouting directions to the soldiery. 

“Louis!” gasped Anne. “You must go! Take 
the same way, quick !” 

“Wait!” he said. “I must give something into 
your care — something important — I dare not risk 
their finding it a second time! Promise me you 
will do with it what I ask.” 

“Yes, yes, but haste! — haste!” 

He had taken a packet from his breast. “This* 
Much depends upon it. It must be carried to Phil- 
adelphia, and there given to Doctor Benjamin 
Franklin. You must tell him to hold it till called 
for.” 

“I will carry it. He shall have it from my own 
hands. I hear them on the porch! For my sake, 
go !” 

“Swear to me !” 

“I swear by all I love — by my love for you.” 

“And you will trust me ?” 

“Always, always! Oh, can you wait while they 
take you ?” 

“Kiss me!” 

“Ah . . 


99 


THE PACKET 


259 


He strained her to him once and sprang toward 
the door through which Henry had fled. But as he 
reached it, Jarrat’s form stood framed in the sash. 
His hand held a pistol. At the same moment, the 
room overflowed with men. 

"So-ho,” he smiled redly over white teeth. "Hot 
so sprightly, eh? Well, the other bird has flown — 
curse those horses’ pounding ! — and we must be con- 
tent with you, I suppose. Lieutenant, I put this 
conger-eel in your care. An he gets off as did 
Patrick Henry, some one shall suffer for it! Hay, 
Mistress, run not to him ! Rather give me the packet 
which the entertaining gentleman gave into your care 
a moment since. I doubt not its contents will in- 
terest us all. It may even hold his patent 
of nobility.” 

Anne’s hands flew to her breast and she shrank 
back as J arrat advanced upon her. 

"You ruffian!” raged Colonel Tillotson, beside 
himself with anger, "an you or your bloody-backs 
lay finger on my niece . . ” 

"Heroics are misplaced. Colonel,” answered Jar- 
rat, curtly. "Will you give up that paper. Mistress ?” 

A quick light came to the girl’s eyes, gazing past 
him. Fumbling in her dress, she drew forth the 
packet and held it out. But as he extended an arm 
to seize it, she drew back and hurled it over his head. 


260 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


through the dining-room door, where huddled Mam- 
my Evaline and the rest of the kitchen servants 
in a shivering group. 

“Bonella!” she screamed. “Take it, Bonella! — 
run ! Hide it ! Run !” The redemptioner woman 
swooped upon the packet and was away like a hare. 

“Clumsy fools !” foamed Jarrat as the soldiers 
bungled at the door-catch. “After her and bring 
her here !” 

Anne, in the reaction, felt her gaze upon Armand, 
erect between the soldiers, swim with tears. How 
could he stand so calm! And with the thought 
she felt a sudden shame for her weakness. 

“The wench has had her run,” grumbled one of 
the soldiers, as they returned with the redemptioner 
woman. “She hasn’t it on her. She’s tucked it 
away somewhere.” 

“I’ll soon know where she’s hidden it,” stormed 
Jarrat. He interrogated her savagely. “Ho,” she 
said brokenly, “I not tell.” 

“Get a raw-hide from the stables and stretch her 
out there ; she’ll talk fast enough !” 

“You’ll not lash her !” cried Anne with trembling 
lips. 

Jarrat made no reply. When the soldier returned 
with the raw-hide, others dragged the woman into 
the center and stood waiting. The poor creature 


THE PACKET 


261 


watched the preparations with her face ashen and 
her black eyes darting rapidly here and there. 

“Now” said Jarrat, menacingly, “will you show 
where you hid that paper ?” She was dumb. 

Once, twice, the heavy thong descended. At the 
first stroke she cowered and cried out with pain. 
At the second a line of red started through the 
coarse oznabrig. 

Jarrat leaned and looked into her face. “I not 
tell you !” she wavered. 

“Fll have the king’s law on you for this,” the 
colonel hurled between his teeth. 

Armand had remained quiet, but as the stroke 
fell twice again, he trembled. The woman’s lips 
were tight together. “Ho! Ho! No!” she said 
between them. “I not tell you! I not tell you 
— never !” 

“Damn her !” J arrat gnashed furiously. “Lay on, 
there, you ! I say I’ll have it out of her !” 

The wieider of the raw-hide paused to tuck up 
his sleeve. The men who held her relaxed their hold 
for an instant and she sank down on the floor with 
closed eyes. 

“They will kill her !” sobbed Anne, clutching her 
uncle’s arm. “They will kill her!” 

“Stand her up again,” commanded Jarrat. 

Armand had grown very white. At Anne’s sot^ 


262 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


he strained forward in the grasp of the soldiers and 
cried : “Tell him ! I command you to tell him !” 

The woman opened her eyes, looked at him search- 
ingly and uncertainly, then smiled and tried to 
shake her head. “I . . not . . tell.” 

They dragged her roughly up again, but her legs 
would not support her. She seemed not to hear 
Jarrat’s shouted question in her ear. He looked 
at her swaying figure a moment, then in a smother 
of rage, raised his pistol butt and brought it down 
heavily on her temple. She fell like a log and he 
turned on his heel cursing. 

“Let the drab go,” he said sullenly, “and bring 
along the other.” 

They mounted, a trooper hitching bridles with 
Arman d ? s horse, and as Jarrat gave the word, they 
moved off in twos down the dark drive. The light 
from the open door fell on the trampled shrubbery, 
the glossy spattered skins of the horses and on 
Armand’s backward turned face. 

“Farewell, Mademoiselle.” 

Anne slipped from the coloneFs arms and sped 
after them. “Louis !” she called clearly. “Remem- 
ber ! I believe ! I trust — and — I love you I” 

“God keep you always !” he responded, and as they 
swept into the black, she saw Jarrat ride close and 
strike him across the mouth with his gloved hand. 


CHAPTER XVII 


IN THE BALANCE 

Philadelphia City a little before midsummer, 1776. 

The old Quaker quiet is gone. The sober thrift 
is there, the hot sun glints from the roofs of the 
squat ware-houses and from the black and glazed 
brick of the trim, two-storied dwellings. Still sur- 
rounding it are the forested hills, pricked out with 
country-seats. The shady lanes still wind down, 
smelling of cows, and the small, muddy creeks still 
run sluggishly across the town. 

But only in these things is it the same it has been 
in the days of its provincial governors. 

Now a strange spirit of excitement pervades it — 
a subtle electricity that touches all things with ex- 
pectancy. The tow-clad German farmers, who have 
been used to smoke their pipes stolidly in the mar- 
ket-place, now gather by their yellow-topped wag- 
ons to talk of General Washington’s hungry Con- 
tinentals, and the black slaves that crowd the wide 
clean kitchens gabble furtively of the fatted Hes- 
sians of Lord Howe. All is a-buzz — all save the 
263 


264 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


little Town Hall from whose gable-ends gray pigeons 
lift like rimpled smoke as though wondering at the 
unwonted quiet of the pillory and whipping-post 
beside it 

The ball which Patrick Henry started at old St. 
John’s Church, in Richmond, Virginia, has gone on 
rolling faster and faster among the people and now, 
in the old Quaker city, the long-smoldering heat 
has gathered into focus. The very vernacular has 
changed. The old names are gone. The “Friends 
of America” and the “Liberals” are now called 
Whigs. The softer “Constitutionalist,” “Minis- 
terialist,” “Conservative” are plain Tories. And 
between Tory and Whig there is a great gulf fixed. 

The shops are open; and their Quaker owners sit 
talking on the broad stoops, gazing frowningly upon 
the new tumult which has brought French officers 
gay with gallantry to dazzle their daughters with 
crimson and purple, which sounds drums to fire 
their smock-shirted ’prentice lads to sinful rebellion 
and to drilling on the Northern Liberties, and which 
has anchored a fleet of new privateers, floating a 
rattlesnake flag, in the silver Delaware at their feet. 

Beside them sit their wives and daughters, some 
rosy, with rebel side-curls and wicked double-tints 
of hair. The dress of all is a single color tone — 
gray, blent of drab and black — with here and there. 


IN THE BALANCE 


265 


accidental notes, a fold of paler neckerchief, a glim- 
mer of lace, a spot of ribbon. But there are no 
hoop petticoats, no plaits in caps and pinners, no 
red-heeled shoes nor fans. 

They sit demurely, though with eyes that sparkle 
with more eager interest. They have not to solve 
the grave problem that troubles their husbands and 
brothers; for even among these men of peace there 
are those who doubt, and more than one, a little later, 
is to don buff and blue in the Continental line and 
brave social ostracism in the Free Society of stanch 
Samuel Wetherill. 

The inns — the Black Boar and Indian Queen and 
the London Coffee House — dilate with tap-room wise- 
acres, and crowds of townfolk loiter along the streets 
in the warm evenings to view the great men come 
to attend the most honorable Congress, sitting in 
the State House. They have seen the Charles-town 
packet bring the delegates from South Carolina. 
Every citizen who can muster a horse has ridden 
out to meet the delegates from Virginia, Maryland 
and Delaware who arrived in a body. They have 
seen them all, have compared them with one an- 
other. 

On High Street stands the great mansion of Rich- 
ard Penn, one of the Proprietaries. It is now thrown 
open for the entertainment of the visitors. 


266 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Up and down the dusty street pass and repass 
earnest men in dull coats and small clothes, work- 
men in oznabrig and leathern aprons and tradesmen 
in coarse cloth. They pause in knots on the pave 
and talk, each by his kind. 

One house they pass many times, looking at it 
with more eager curiosity and concern. This build- 
ing is even less pretentious than its fellows, but one 
who observes it long will have noted that those who 
pass in and out of its door lend it a peculiar distinc- 
tion. They come in velvet instead of cloth, their 
sleeves droop with lace; they wear powdered hair 
and diamond buckles, and for the most part carry 
dress swords. 

The house is occupied as a shop and the silver 
plate on the door bears the name of “ James Ran- 
dolph.” It is the headquarters of the Virginia del- 
egations. 

To Henry, chafing in his Virginia harness, how 
slowly the ball had rolled among the conventions! 
How halting went the leaders! Messengers riding 
post-haste, brought him the news from Philadelphia. 

Congress had recommended that the several Col- 
onies form distinct governments for themselves. 
And even to this the delegates of New York and 
Pennsylvania had loud objection. Henry gnashed 
his teeth in the Convention at Williamsburg and on 


IN THE BALANCE 


267 


May fifteenth, a resolution was passed directing the 
Virginia delegates in Philadelphia to “declare the 
United Colonies free and independent states.” 

A significant word ! Richard Henry Lee followed 
in J une with his resolution for independence. 

But alas for human failing! Many of the dele- 
gates — Dickinson, Morris, Livingston — were men of 
property. And the possession of property enlarges 
the hump of caution. They cried for delay. The 
older Quakers, men of peace, had set their faces and 
their faith against rebellion. 

New York was milk and water; there had been 
the failure of the Canadian expedition, and besides, 
the province had its exposed harbor and the Indian 
raids on its frontier to think of. The Pennsylvania 
delegation refused to vote on separation and left 
their seats in anger. Maryland had few grievances. 

And what of New Jersey? There was Toryism 
entrenched. Its royal governor, the son of the 
benevolent-faced patriot, Benjamin Franklin, went 
breathing fire against the Whigs ; not till he had been 
shipped to Connecticut in irons, not till Congress 
had sent three of its members to argue, to plead, 
to storm, did its Assembly declare for freedom. 

Think not that those who hesitated were not men 
of honor, jealous for the welfare of their country. 
Not every one believed George III another such a 


268 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS' 


despot as Philip II of Spain or the bloody-minded 
man the radicals illiberally called him. The storm 
was high on the horizon. And it is the part of wis- 
dom to count well the cost of desperate ventures. 
Against the Colonies was pitted the mistress of the 
seas — a king, innumerable battalions, armament, 
navies, money and the prestige of hereditary posses- 
sion. The Colonies stood alone. 

There were those who, like Henry, whose clear 
eye saw the future as with divination, pinned faith 
upon Gallic enmity to England and looked for a sign 
of aid. But the months came and went without its 
appearance. Now the third Congress was sitting 
and France was silent. Granted a defiance to Great 
Britain, the outcome was doubtful — how doubtful, 
five red years of smoke and blood were to demon- 
strate. 

As the pendulum vibrated a British fleet in the 
Delaware brought the war within hearing, and Lord 
Howe hove to off Sandy Hook with all his army. 

The Congress was, after all, a miniature of the 
country. It held a Tory party who awaited some 
disaster to become dangerous. It held faint hearts 
who croaked, despondent ones who predicted ruin, 
and brave hearts that dared a struggle they believed 
would be uncertain. 

On such a field, for twenty-five long days, a deter- 


IN THE BALANCE 


269 


mined battle was fought. It ended at last, and one 
evening Thomas Jefferson, of Virginia, betook him- 
self to a little house back of an oblong green, where 
lived Doctor Franklin, and wrote the first draft of the 
Declaration of Independence. 

There comes a time in the history of every great 
movement when it must go forward or die. 
Lethargy breeds reaction. The fierce fight for a 
Declaration had marked this point now. In the 
three days since the vote the opposition had gathered 
its shattered forces. There were new mntterings 
and the little Virginian delegation in the shop of 
Mr. James Randolph, on High Street, knew that the 
defiance which was to be offered on the morrow, if 
it were to be signed at all, must be signed quickly. 

So, out of a humid morning, grew the afternoon 
of the third of July for Philadelphia. It came in 
heat, with a brazen sky. 

Opposite Mr. Randolph’s shop, on the same eve- 
ning, Joseph Galloway, the lawyer, walking slowly, 
paused and looked across the street. He was thick- 
set and middle-aged, with a smooth, crafty face 
and restless eyes. 

He had lacked Whig patriotism in the first Con- 
gress. The second would have none of him. And 
yet he had earlier led the popular party against the 


270 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS' 


proprietary! Such strange overturnings the new 
idea of freedom was bringing about! The fierce 
Tory rancor which had made of this man at first 
“the defender of the prerogative” was to convert 
him later into a spy, a refugee and a sour pensioner, 
of George III. 

Now there was the open hatred of a bitter Tory 
in the look Joseph Galloway cast upon the little 
shop. 

“Good day, Mordecai,” he said in greeting to a 
rotund merchant Quaker who joined him. “I see 
you also looking. What think you our Virginia 
hot-bloods will brew next in their den yonder?” 

The Quaker frowned. “I love them not,” he an- 
swered. “What saith the Scriptures? ‘For the 
weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty 
through God to the pulling down of strongholds/” 

“Gentlemen of birth and wealth, forsooth,” con- 
tinued Galloway angrily, “and yet prating like the 
veriest clouts, of independence and brotherhood! 
Whose was the bill to separate from Great Britain? 
Richard Henry Lee’s. And who has written the 
Declaration that is to be thrust beneath the dele- 
gates’ noses to-morrow? Thomas Jefferson. These 
Virginians ! Would we had never heard of Virginia 
before we came to this ! 

“Look you” — he broke off and pointed with his 


IN THE BALANCE 


271 


stick where a coach bowled along High Street. It 
was richly furnished and bore arms on its panels. 
On the cushions, exquisitely dressed in a white uni- 
form, sat a blocky, military-looking man with bushy 
wig and foreign mustachios. He wore a cocked hat. 

“ ’Tis Monsieur Pliarne,” said the Quaker. 
“These French parasites with powder to peddle, 
friend Joseph, would joy to see the Colonies plunged 
into bloody strife. They would batten on our ex- 
tremity. Tor wheresoever the carcass is, there the 
eagles be gathered together/” 

“French officers !” ejaculated Galloway. “Aye, or 
adventurers! As like to be one as another. May- 
hap Monsieur Pliarne goes to see the precious envoy, 
whose new-coming the town gapes about.” 

“He is to be received?” 

“To-morrow afternoon. ’Tis an open secret. No- 
tice was sent the House this morning.” 

“’Twas averred in the street but now that he is 
come from Louis the Sixteenth.” 

“Let them jabber!” grumbled Galloway. “Little 
store is to be set by these fine envoys. I mind me 
when the Frenchman came to the Congress last No- 
vember. You heard of that, mayhap. There was 
the same excitement — a committee appointed, too, 
I remember. John Jay was upon it. They met 
the personage in a room in Carpenter’s Hall, and 


272 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


what think yon they found? Why, a little old 
frog-eater with a club-foot, who, when they asked 
him for his authority, drew his hand across his 
throat, and says he: ‘Gentlemen, I shall take care 
of my head!’ That was all they could get out of 
him. Some imbecile belike. And even then there 
were those who saw great signs in it. A pest on all 
such, say I!” 

The Quaker shook his head doubtfully. “Yet 
there is much hoped for from this present message,” 
he said. “I heard it on good authority some months 
ago that a French marquis was to come hither. 
’Twas said Benjamin Franklin had wrote of the 
matter from London. Mayhap this is the same.” 

“Bosh!” sniffed Galloway. “’Tis absurd, I say, 
the faith that is put in such a vain and empty 
hope ! I do know that half the delegates have some 
such folly in their heads. The Declaration is to 
be offered for signing to-morrow, and look you, it 
is in the minds of some members to retard action 
upon it, hoping such a message from France may 
bolster faint hearts.” 

“Thou dost not think they will sign, then?” 

“God forbid!” rejoined Galloway, fervently. “I 
can not believe we are so near madness as that. 
And yet I would that naught had been heard of a 









f ' 

•• 

* 
























IN THE BALANCE 


273 


message from France. Methinks to-morrow will be 
warm. Goodnight to you, Mordecai.” 

As the two friends talked, the chimes had clan- 
gored from Christ Church, and just as the tones 
sounded, a stout-trunched old man with a shrewd, 
simple face under a broad hat, lifted the latch of 
a near-by gate which barred an oblong green yard 
from the street. 

Therein, under a mulberry tree, where yellow cab- 
bage-butterflies went kissing wings, a chubby woman 
was sitting by a table whereon stood some books 
and a glass bottle containing a two-headed snake 
in spirits. Two tousled children rolled and romped 
unheeded underfoot. The film of twilight was fall- 
ing from a cooling sky. 

“You are late, father,” the woman said as the 
old man greeted her. “Supper is almost ready. 
Young Mr. Jefferson has sent word that he will be 
here this evening. I do hope,” she added good- 
naturedly, “that you won’t sit up all night again 
over that tiresome paper he is writing. Laws ! One 
would think it had been a real speech.” 

She ran to fetch a dish of tea, and her father 
sat down in his chair and took off his hat. His 
head was bald, with a fringe of white hair. He 
was mopping his forehead with a large kerchief 
when she returned with the tea. 


274 


HEAETS COUEAGEOUS 


“Bless me” she said, as the gate clicked, “here 
is some one to see you already. A young man and 
handsome,” she whispered, as he came nearer, “but 
how pale!” It was Armand. 

“Is this Doctor Franklin ?” he inquired. 

“It is.” 

“Sir,” said Armand, “a packet was given secretly 
into your hands to hold for me, sometime since, 
sealed with a red seal bearing four lances.” 

Doctor Franklin drew his brows together with a 
glance of surprise and shook his head. 

“Surely you have received it?” 

There was a curious rigor of anxiety in the tone 
that caused Doctor Franklin to glance sharply at his 
questioner. The scrutiny satisfied him, for the look 
of suspicion that had been stiffened by the strenu- 
ous times faded into his habitual benevolence. 

“I recall none such,” he answered gravely. “What 
name did it bear?” 

“It bore no name.” The tone shook now with 
a confusion of apprehension. 

“I fear that is all the more reason that I could not 
have forgot it. These are troublous days, sir, and 
faith not always to be relied upon. To whom did 
you entrust this document?” 

Something like fear had come into the other’s 


IN THE BALANCE 


275 


eyes, and Doctor Franklin for the first time noted 
with concern his agitation and pallor. 

“To a young lady of Virginia.” 

“I am sorry, sir, deeply sorry,” said the old man, 
‘fimt no such packet has been put into my hands 
at any time.” 

“Poor young man!” sighed the motherly woman 
a few minutes later, as she set the table for 
supper. “What think you could have been in it, 
father? He looked as if it had meant life or death 
to him.” 

Armand walked slowly through several side-streets 
to the Red Lion Tavern on Sassafras Street, one of 
the less pretentious inns. Here, in a dim parlor 
on the ground floor, waited the occupant of the 
fine coach which had roused the spleen of Joseph 
Galloway; his hat was flung on a chair and he 
strode up and down, his mustachios bristling with im- 
patience. 

As Armand entered he embraced him effusively 
in the French fashion. 

“All goes well,” he cried. “I have been discreet 
and have done all you instructed. The Congress 
has named three members to receive you to-morrow 
at one o’clock. Ventrebleu ! With the Declaration 
hanging fire, you may believe how eager they are! 


m 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


I have brought your clothes, too. Nom de Dieu !* 
he exclaimed, holding Armand’s arms affectionately. 
“To know you were in a British prison! Thank 
God you escaped their clutches, and just in the nick 
of time, too! You shall tell me about it one day.” 

“Pliarne!” Armand broke in upon the other’s 
chatter. “Pliarne! . • . The letter! I hare 
not got it.” 

“Not got it?” Pliame repeated in amazed sur- 
prise. 

“No; I sent it here to Philadelphia to Doctor 
Franklin. I did not tell you this, since I expected 
to find it here. Well, I have seen Doctor Franklin, 
and it has not been delivered.” 

Pliarne’s face was a study of dismay. “And what 
will you do ?” 

Armand had no time to reply, for at that moment 
there came a knock at the door and it opened. 

Instantly Pliarne bent low in a series of bows 
to Armand. 

“Accept my most profound salutations. Monseig- 
neur,” he said in tones of elaborate ceremony. “I 
shall be pleased to accompany you on your dis- 
tinguished errand to-morrow afternoon.” 

“Monsieur Pliarne,” said Armand easily, “this is 
my good friend, Captain Jarrat. Au revoir. Mon- 
sieur — jusqu’au matin !’* 


i 


CHAPTER XVIII 


FOR LIFE OR FOR HONOR. 

More than one along the south road, that sultry 
morning of July Fourth, turned to gaze after a fair- 
haired girl who passed upon a lead-white horse 
with a negro boy behind her a-stride a sorrel. 
Yellow dust splotched Anne’s olive cloak as she 
rode into the town, and yellow dust clung to John- 
the-Baptist’s wool. 

How many leagues! She would have been worn 
but for the purpose that buoyed her up. She rode 
some way, paying as little heed to the sparse groups 
along the streets or to the few painted Indians 
lounging with their peltry in the squares as to the 
beetle-browed roofs or the wooden statuary in the 
pretentious yards. 

Her thoughts were busy with the past — they 
flew back to that night at Gladden Hall, her last 
view of Armand, when Jarrat’s troopers had dragged 
him away; to the flight of Dunmore and his family, 
his wanton burning of Norfolk with his rabble of 

m 


278 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


runaway slaves, and the last fight at Gwyn’s Island 
whence the impotent earl, with his brutal aide. 
Captain Foy, sailed away to the North, never again 
to set foot upon Virginian soil; to her anguished 
wonder as to Armand’s fate meanwhile. Even 
Henry’s return from the second Congress, the news 
that Colonel Washington had been elected Com- 
mander-in- Chief of Colonial forces and the glorious 
outcome of his long siege of Boston had not been 
able to cheer her. 

She thought of the long hours she had watched 
by the bedside of the bondwoman with grave-faced 
Doctor Craik, watching her slow return to life. Of 
the still longer days when she had sat by the list- 
less figure who only stared leaden-eyed and with 
brain piteously dulled, to hear asked over and over 
again with desperate earnestness that same ques- 
tion — “Where is it ? Can't you remember ?” — a 
question met always with the same result. Of the 
long, fruitless search, the unreasoning faith in him 
that would not yield to recital or argument, and 
finally the lucky accident which had given her the 
clue to the packet’s hiding-place. 

She had started the self-same day, taking John- 
the-Baptist with her, leaving a hurried message for 
her uncle and aunt, who were then away in Rich- 
mond. And this, the twelfth day thereafter, found 


FOR LIFE OR FOR HONOR 


279 


her at her journey’s end, riding into the wide, clean 
thoroughfares of Philadelphia. 

“Mis’ Anne — •” John-the-Baptist’s solemn drawl 
broke her reverie. “Dat yaller hoy at de place 
whar we stayed las’ night say dee gwinter mek 
ev’ybody ekal. Do dat mean we niggers gwineter 
he white, lak you, or is /all gwinter be black 
lak me?” 

But Anne had no answer. 

Going toward High Street, her course lay by the 
open green on which the new State House fronted. 
She noticed that the pavements were almost de- 
serted, and found herself thinking wonderingly 
that the streets of Richmond were noisier. 

It was with a start of surprise that, on turning 
a corner by the green, she pulled up without warn- 
ing on the skirts of a great hushed crowd, well 
ordered, moving restlessly, under trees that shrilled 
with locusts. 

Most of those nearer the front were gentry. 
They walked back and forth slowly, trampling the 
blue thistles and whortleberry bushes. Next them 
was a stratum of the trading and working classes. 
No wonder the wealthier merchants jeered them, 
for they wore trousers of coarse drill, even leather 
jerkins; and some carried tools. Here was a group 
of weavers from German-town, and not far away a 


m 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


knot of Swedes from Wicacoa. The older men 
among these wore leggings and skin coats. 

On the outskirts of all, here and there, holding 
themselves aloof, walked statelier, heavier figures in 
small-clothes of rich velvets and satins and wear- 
ing powdered wigs. 

They carried irritable looks, these “Pennsylvania 
lords,” as the hitter Adams called them. It * was 
bad weather for Tories. From the yard of Clarke’s 
Inn, across the street, they looked askance at the 
workmen, passing sneering allusions to the repre- 
sentatives from Massachusetts, angered at the as- 
sumption of legislative powers by men clearly of 
more humble blood than themselves. 

They saw the cannon in position by the State 
House and the Continental flags fluttering from 
the shipping in the harbor. They knew that in 
the near-by woods five battalions of Associators, 
drilled and armed, were awaiting any outcome. 
They knew that the People were ready — if only 
their leaders should choose. 

Anne, upon her tired horse, looked with wonder 
at this earnest, quiet crowd and thrilled with a new 
sense of the dignity of the assemblage within those 
brick walls. The heat was simmering, and she had 
thrown open the thin cloak she wore, showing a flash 
of crimson waist with a sheen of metal buttons. 


FOR LIFE OR FOR HONOR 281 


Mordecai Floyd, looking on near-by, gazed on 
her with pnrsed lips. 

“Small wonder,” he said grimly, “that unright- 
eousness doth overwhelm the children of the world 
and move them to wrath, when we see all about us 
the testimony of undenial. Lust of the eye, friend 
Joseph! Lust of the eye!” 

Joseph Galloway, standing by him, looked at the 
girl, so straight and young and bright-hued ; then 
his crafty look returned. “Consider the lilies of 
the field,” he quoted with unction, as he took snuff. 

“I doubt not,” pursued the Quaker, wagging his 
pow, “ Twas designed to cast a slur upon the vanity 
of apparel, since ? tis a thing of so little estimation 
in the sight of God that He bestows it in the highest 
degree upon the meanest of His creatures. *Tis to 
be presumed that, were it, a thing of worth in itself, 
instead of bestowing coIotb, gildings, and broideries 
upon tulips, He had bestowed them upon creatures 
of higher dignity. To mankind He hath given but 
sparingly of gaudy features; a great part of them 
being black, a great part of them being tawny, and 
a great part being of other wan and dusky com- 
plexions — showing that Tis not the outward adorn- 
ment that He wishes, but the appearing in sup- 
plication for the ornamenting of the Spirit.” 

“Even Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed 


282 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


like one of these !” intoned his companion smoothly. 
“But I must be going, Mordecai. I have an errand 
at the tavern.” 

“Hast thou heard aught more of the message to 
the Congress from France?” the Quaker inquired 
in a low voice, as he clasped the other’s fervid palm. 

Galloway put his lips closer to the other’s ear, 
and a glutinous chuckle shook his jowl. 

“Mordecai,” he said, “I dreamed last night that 
France had an ax to grind. Wouldn’t it be curi- 
ous if the message didn’t tickle the Congress so 
much after all? Ho-ho!” 

Anne’s first inquiry provoked a smile from the 
bystanders. Doctor Franklin? Yes, he was doubt- 
less in the Hall, but to see him ! Quite impossible ! 
And a lady, too. At a recess she might succeed, 
but not now. Who could tell but he was on the 
floor at that moment? 

So she rode on. At High Street she inquired 
for an inn, as she had been in the saddle since 
dawn and the horses were jaded. Learning that 
the principal ones were all full, owing to the pres- 
ence of the delegates, she found her way to one of 
the more humble hostelries on another street. It 
was the Red Lion Tavern. 

The place seemed well-nigh deserted; had she 
known the significance of this day’s sitting of the 


FOR LIFE OR FOR HONOR 


283 


Congress, she would have understood. As it was, 
finding no host in evidence, she went into the par- 
lor and sat down to await his appearance. 

And sitting so, from the hall, and coming nearer, 
she heard the well-remembered voice of Jarrat. 

A panic seized her. The packet — it was in the 
lining of her cloak at that moment. He must not 
see. her ! She looked wildly about her, but there 
was no door of escape. In desperation she ran to 
the deep-set window. It was shut, but there were 
shalloon curtains across the alcove, and she shrank 
behind them as the door flew open. 

Jarrat came in noisily; one of the inn servants 
was at his heels. 

“I would speak with Monsiegneur,” he said. 
“Request him to be so good as to honor me here.” 
He stood smiling redly as the servant went, and 
Anne watched him from between the curtains with 
fascinated gaze. 

“At last!” he muttered; “the final stroke, and 
still all goes well. If Armand succeeds for us, 
then advancement and favor for me. The king 
must reward me, for the plan was mine alone.” 

“Armand !” Anne’s heart had given a great leap. 
Jarrat knew where he was — what he did. “If he 
succeeds for us” — what meant those strange words? 

Again a step in the hall, again the door opened. 


284 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


a scraping servant said, “Monseigneur,” and again 
Anne’s heart leaped; for the man who stood on the 
threshold, clad in a full costume of purple velvet, 
was Armand. Armand, but sparer of feature, with 
shadows beneath the eyes. Yet they looked out with 
all their old nobility and with a strange fire. She 
knew now where she had seen that fire — it was in 
Henry’s face — the fire of steadfast purpose that 
knows no quenching. 

Armand ! Escaped from Dunmore’s clutches, safe 
and in Philadelphia! She wanted to rush out to 
him, to cry to him that she had done the best she 
could, had come to fulfill her promise at last. But 
what did he with Jarrat? 

“So!” the latter said, “as bravely trimmed as 
ever. ’Tis the dress of a prince.” 

“My good Pliarne has the best of taste.” On 
Armand’s face was a strange smile. 

“You have cozened him beautifully. I doubt not 
he expects reimbursement from his king.” 

“My king,” corrected Armand softly. 

“Keep it up,” laughed Jarrat. “’Tis never for- 
getting makes a good play-actor. Faith, it minds 
me of the old Virginia days. Then you posed as 
only a marquis. We rise in the world. Yesterday 
— in a prison cell at Halifax; to-day — this little 
plan, release, and presto! behold Louis’s secret 


FOR LIFE OR FOR HONOR 


285 


envoy. Well, you are near to the purchase of your 
pardon. The time is almost here. A half-hour 
more and you will enter the State House. You 
lack not assurance. Here is the letter you will 
deliver to the Congress.” 

• Armand took the paper he handed him and put 
it in his breast. 

“ ’Tis signed with De Vergennes’ name, of course,” 
went on Jarrat, “and ’tis a clever enough forgery to 
trick even Poor Richard for the time being. Aid in 
return for territorial compensation . . now if 

’twere only Louis Fifteenth ! ’Twould he like the old 
skinflint. Methinks ’twill be a wet-blanket to allay 
this fever for a Declaration. ’Twill suffice to tide 
over till these patriot addle-pates come to their 
senses.” 

Anne’s mind was in a clamor — a hideous, un- 
meaning clamor of surprises, from which a single 
fact stood out with the clearness of a black sil- 
houette etched on white paper. Armand, not es- 
caped, but released — released — going before the 
Congress with a lying message — a message of dis- 
couragement — going now, this very hour, and the 
plot was Jarrat’s. 

It was for a single heart-beat as if the sun were 
darkened, as if all joy were blotted from the universe. 
Then, peering out, she saw his eyes, and the bitter 


286 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


scene at Gladden Hall rose to her like a vision. She 
saw him dragged away, and with the vision she felt, 
strong, triumphant, the terrible, joyful rebellion of 
her own belief in him that would not doubt. 

"I could not have devised it better myself” — 
Jarrat was speaking again. “There is not a soul 
in Congress who could recognize you as the Louis 
Armand seized at Williamsburg. Luckily, Henry 
is in the Virginia Convention. The devil holds 
cards with us.” 

“And this,” said Armand, as if to himself, “has 
been the devil’s deal.” 

“Aye. But ’tis time for us to start; Pliarne will 
be there by now.” He consulted his watch. “Ten 
minutes to ride thither. I have horses at the door. 
I shall go with you as one of your suite. Luckily, 
I shall not be known. I must not miss the delight 
of recounting this interesting event in detail, in 
Virginia. Can you guess,” with a malign smile, 
“to whom in especial, Monseigneur ?” 

A red flush leaped into Armand’s cheek and his 
teeth clenched convulsively. It was as if a great 
wave of passion lashed the man and left him tense 
and white. His tone, however, remained as low 
as ever. 

“You hound!” he said. “You prowling wolf of 
the dark! who know no truth, no trust, no faith! 


FOR LIFE OR FOR HONOR 


287 


who, being vile, think all else vile the same. Thank 
God that to that one . . to her . . my honor 
was always unstained. She believe you? No! 
Never! I go alone to the Congress — you go no 
farther with me !” 

A facial contortion drew Jarrat’s lips from his 
teeth. He stood in a leaning posture, his knuckles 
flat upon the table between them, a thriving sus- 
picion in his look. A fit of shuddering seized 
Anne as she saw this look change swiftly to con- 
viction — certainty in which rage and shame and 
hate were black. 

“I go no farther?” he repeated. “What say you? 
Oh, fool . . . fool that I was to trust you! 

You have tricked me! You never intended to do 
it! You will not go! — Aye, you would go, but 
wherefore?” His voice had sunk to a metallic dul- 
ness, and he eyed the other, breathing hard. 

Now his tone leaped again: “I know! The 
French king had his own mind! He sent your 
master a message to convey ... a message of 
comfort. Ah! your face says ‘aye’ ! *Twas in the 
packet you gave to Mistress Tillotson at Gladden 
Hall! Damn that bondwoman! You have got it! 
Now that you are false to us, Tis that message — 
that message that you would give the Congress! 
And Twas I brought you from the jail . . . I !” 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


288 

The last words were a sort of horrible rasping 
whisper, and as he spoke he came slowly around 
the table, his fingers clawing its edge. 

“But you shall not! You double traitor! You 
shall not go! I know you — I alone! I will pre- 
vent it.” 

“You shall never leave this room,” said Armand. 

Crouched low, holding the shalloon edges, Anne 
saw it all, the breath frozen in her throat — saw 
both blades clang out with a single movement — 
saw Jarrat hurl himself forward — heard the steel 
meet. Mixed joy and horror held her. 

She understood; he had cherished his master’s 
purpose all along — pursued by treachery, meeting 
cunning with cunning, constrained to deception. 
It was the true message of the French king that 
she clasped at that moment under her cloak. To 
carry this he had won his way from the hands of 
his enemies and fooled Jarrat to his purpose. And 
now without the packet, his voice would give the 
message to the Congress. She had brought it just 
in time. 

All this came to her at once, in a succession of 
pictures vivid as patches of night landscape seen 
by violet lightning, and at an instant when horror 
overrolled her joy. 

The street, the tap-room were so near; would none 


FOR LIFE OR FOR HONOR 


289 


come to stop them? She feared to declare herself, 
for a start, a tremor of the hand, might mean 
death to her lover. 

She saw the quick end, powerless to utter a cry. 
Armand stiffened suddenly, his left hand fallen 
low; his blade passed like a needle in sailcloth, 
through the other’s body, and Jarrat slipped in a 
huddle to the floor and lay still. 

Anne tried to scream, but her throat only gave 
forth a whisper. Not till Armand had sheathed 
his wet sword and the door had closed upon him, 
did she find strength to part the curtains. 

She looked upon the prostrate man in a terror. 
She must summon help and then take the packet 
to Armand. She realized suddenly that Jarrat was 
not dead — that his eyes were upon her — that he 
was struggling to a sitting posture. 

“You saw . . you heard,” he gasped. “You !” 

“Yes,” she breathed. 

“You brought him the packet! My God — to 
think I never suspected ! And he has gone — - 
gone—” 

“To his honor.” 

He stared at her, a slow, ghastly smile coming 
to wreathe his lips. “Honor? Say you so? Wait.” 

He made an attempt to unbutton his waistcoat. 
“The paper in this pocket,” he groaned. “Take it 


290 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


and read. Quick! Quick! Hay, call no onel 
Men bleed not to death so soon.” 

She unfolded the scroll with shaking fingers and 
read: 

“I, Louis Armand, released from durance in Hal- 
ifax, under special instruction from his Majesty’s 
Government touching the Continental Congress, do 
agree that, in the event that I do not carry out this 
mission, as ordered , I hold my life forfeit and pledge 
my honor within one month this hereafter to de- 
liver myself to Lord Chetwynde, whose custody 
I now leave. * 

“(Signed) Armand.” 

She caught her breath. “Do pledge my honor 
to deliver myself” — “to hold my life forfeit.” He 
had chosen to give his life to carry the true mes- 
sage. His life! How dear that was to her! He 
must not do it! Oh, if God would only help her 
to think. He must not do it! She heard Jarrat’s 
breathing through it all. and felt his eyes, filming, 
upon her. 

A heavy knocking came at the door, and Joseph 
Galloway entered, his stick in his hand. He made 
an exclamation as he saw, and threw up his hands. 

“Galloway!” said the wounded man, his breath 
rattling with a convulsion as the other bent over 


FOE LIFE OR FOE HONOR 


291 


him. “He is false to us. Armand — he is false as 
hell! He — did this. He is gone to the Congress. 
Yon must stop him l” 

“Yes, yes. I will call a leech. ? Tis not a mor- 
tal thrust, man. I will go to the Hall. But how 
to do it ? Proofs — ■” 

“She ...” gasped Jarrat, in a final effort, 
pointing to Anne. “She . . 99 and lapsed into 
asb?-u, unconsciousness. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE GREAT SUNDERING 

The white-walled, high-ceiled ante-room was 
barely furnished with paduasoy chairs and a small 
slim-legged table. A high desk used betimes by the 
Colony’s Chief Justice of the Supreme Court was at 
one end, with doors on either side; the other end 
of the room opened in narrow arches between pillars, 
into the wide-paved hall of the State House. Across 
these pillars was stretched a heavy cloth curtain, 
through whose folds sounds from the corridor reached 
dull and muffled. 

Beyond these curtains, on the opposite side of the 
hall, was a great double-door, and through the heavy 
oak came voices in debate and an occasional high 
note, like the metallic rap of a gavel. But in the 
ante-room this became only a distant hum like that 
of settling bees. 

Armand, clad as for a court levee, stood one side 
erect and smiling before a trio of sober-coated fig- 
292 


THE GKEAT SUNDER1H G 


293 


ures in duffle gray. His long, brown, rippling hair, 
the rare lace at his throat, the jade hilt of his dress- 
sword, made him as distinct as some brilliant-hued 
insect among gray moths. Beside him, uniformed, 
his mustachios aggressive as ever, short, wiry and 
alert, stood Pliarne. 

The sober-coated gentlemen, the delegates ap- 
pointed to meet the secret messenger to the Con- 
gress, had made their bows to the great man, all 
but Dickinson, their leader, openly radiant with the 
presumed bearing of his mission. Monsieur Pliarne’s 
proposals for ammunition purchases had recently 
been considered in committee, and the announce- 
ment of the envoy’s 'arrival, coming from him, a 
known agent of France, had carried a weight added 
to by the appearance of the man before them. He 
had arrived a little late — a deliberateness that ac- 
corded well with the sobriety of his errand. 

How they but waited a pause in the debate to 
throw wide the doors that opened to the floor. 

On the other side of those doors rages what is 
to be the last agitated hour of the fight. The docu- 
ment that is to be the birth-certificate of a nation 
lies upon the table. Since early morning the dis- 
cussion has been bitter. 

Well for the hundreds who so anxiously wait in 
the sunny streets and crowd the green outside that 


294 


HEAETS COTTKAGEOUS 


this document is to come to them softened, as a 
grave deliberation, when time and distance have 
smoothed its roughnesses. 

It would not have profited them to see the strenu- 
ous Adams balk at the word “tyrant,” believing 
George III rather a man deceived. To hear the 
learned Witherspoon rage because of a reference to 
the Scotch people. To see North Carolina dele- 
gates protest against the arraignment of the king 
for forcing upon the Colonies the African slave trade. 
To hear Tory ridicule, unashamed, assail a leaf of 
immortality ! 

What did the evil tongues not say, indeed? “A 
plagiarism from Locke’s treatise on Government” — 
“its phrasing stolen from a tragi-comedy of Aphra 
Behn’s” — “an imitation of Chief Justice Drayton’s 
Charge to the Grand Jury of Charles-town” — “a 
jumble of hackneyed ideas composed by James Otis 
in one of his lucid intervals.” 

And back of all in this struggle, beneath the ardor 
of both sides, now that the fierceness was cooling, 
lay waiting, hesitant, the inevitable, silent but all- 
powerful minority who waver and — decide. 

The insect hum ceased suddenly. There was a 
forward movement of the group in the ante-room 
toward the curtains. 

“Stop!” echoed an intense voice behind them; 


THE GREAT SUNDERING 


295 


“stop!” Joseph Galloway stepped into the room 
from one of the side entrances and closed the door. 

“Praise the Most High,” he ejaculated, “that I 
am come in time! Gentlemen, as you would save 
the Congress from a most shameful scandal, let 
not that man pass from this room !” 

There was a murmur of angry amazement from 
the group. Armand’s hand dropped to his side. 
His face had whitened, and Pliarne’s mustachios 
worked alarmingly. 

“Sir,” interposed Dickinson sternly, “we receive 
here a legate of France.” 

“You receive an impostor, a villain and a spy.” 

Pliarne’s hand went to his sword, but Dickinson 
stepped before him, while the others stood stock- 
still, blankness in their bearing. 

“An insult !” cried the former. “And to the very 
face of Monseigneur! Gentlemen, you have cause 
enough to know the politics of this meddler who has 
forced his way into this presence.” 

“I am an honest man,” retorted Galloway. “My 
errand here should demonstrate that. And what I 
say, I prove.” 

“I know not whether we should listen, sir,” said 
Dickinson, his brows together. “Heaven forbid 
that we should affront such a guest ! Yet — the words 
you have uttered demand, for his Excellency’s satis- 


296 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


faction at least, an explanation. In his name, then, 
speak, but quickly and begone.” Dickinson was a 
diplomat. 

"I shall be brief,” returned Galloway. “This man, 
whom you believe a French nobleman, is Louis Ar- 
mand, an adventurer lately arrested in Virginia, now 
in the secret service of the British. The message he 
bears is a forgery conveying the offer of aid only on 
impossible conditions, calculated to discourage hope 
and quench the fervor for independence.” 

A low exclamation that was very like an abjur- 
ation burst from Dickinson’s lips and his eyes 
flashed first on the speaker and then upon Armand. 

The color was come back to the young French- 
man’s face. 

“In my own country, gentlemen,” he laughed, “we 
have asiles for such poor miserables. However 
. . . my reputation, how dear it is to me ! You 

will proceed, I beg.” 

It was admirably done. A quaver of relief spread 
abroad. 

“The document in the ease,” said Galloway, and 
handed Dickinson the writing executed by Lord 
Chetwynde at the Halifax prison. “An agreement 
duly signed, accepting this traitorous mission.” 

Having delivered it over, he rubbed his hands 
together softly. 


THE GREAT SUNDERING 


297 


“An arrant concoction to be sure !” railed Pliarne. 
“What could be easier? A signature? Of course, 
of course. But his ? — zounds ! Such , effrontery 
passes belief. ‘An adventurer arrested in Virginia/ 
forsooth? Wert ever in Virginia, you Tory?” 

“No,” answered Galloway, coolly. 

A heavy reverberating voice, passion l.hri! led, 
boomed through the door beyond the curtains, and 
the sound of hand-clapping followed it in a far 
velvet tumult. 

“ ’Tis the Declaration !” exclaimed Pliarne. “The 
Declaration ! ’Tis before them for signatures. They 
will decide in an hour. And you listen to this 
smug poltroon!” 

The sweat broke upon Dickinson’s forehead/ 
Through all these months, by voice and pen, he 
had striven to incite the Colonies to mutiny. Yet 
he had recoiled from Jefferson’s bold resolution to 
sever from the crown. Resistance he had preached, 
not secession. And yet — and yet — 

He turned to Armand. “The content of your mes~ 
sage,” he said, “so much depends. If . , ” 

“Sir!” Armand stopped him sharply. “What I 
bear is for the Congress !” 

“In God’s name, then, who and what are you?” 

“A messenger of the French king !” 

Silence fell. Through it Joseph Galloway’s 


298 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


unctuous voice spread softly. “Gentlemen. I have 
a conclusive witness. One moment!” 

He passed through the side door and an instant 
later entered, leading Anne. All eyes were turned 
upon them. 

“ *Tis Mistress Tillotson !” One of the committee 
who had hitherto kept silence was speaking. “A 
lady of Virginia, gentlemen, whom I do know loyal 
and worthy of all credence.” 

She did not dare to look about her. She stood, 
white, piteous. The quiet was unbearable. 

The oily voice broke it. “Look upon this man. 
Is he or is he not Louis Armand, lately seized in 
Virginia for representing himself a French noble- 
man?” 

She turned her eyes an instant to him and saw 
his face, deadly pale, his eyes terrible, staring at 
her. 

“He is,” she answered in a scarce audible tone. 

“You received this paper from the hands of an 
officer in the British service? And recognize the 
signature as that of this man?” 

“Yes.” The questions were pitiless. Her limbs 
were failing her, and she caught at the jamb of 
the door. 

If she only dared look at him ! Would they never 
let her go ? The hypocrisy in those rounded, smooth 


THE GREAT SHNDERING 


299 


syllables! Were they framing thanks? “For her 
loyalty,” “her courage,” “at a moment when a mat- 
ter of great import trembled in the balance!” 

“Enough!” The sharp, strained tone of Dickin- 
son was a relief. “The lady is fatigued.” 

Then the cooler air of the outer hall smote her 
face, and the falling curtain shut away from her 
that dreadful room, the torturing voice, the duffle- 
gray men, and among them all that silent accusing 
face, those eyes suddenly sunken, round with pain 
— Armand whom she loved and had betrayed! 

As the door closed behind her, Armand dropped 
into a chair and buried his face in his hands. 

“And now, gentlemen,” finished Galloway, turn- 
ing again into the room, “will you let this un- 
speakable villain pass those doors now?” 

“Sir,” protested Pliarne, appealing to Dickinson, 
“sir . . gentlemen . . a monstrous error is 

being made. A coil of circumstance has been cun- 
ningly wove, to explain which there is no time. 
Nor, mayhap, now would you credit it. But as an 
officer of the French army, as a chevalier, as a 
French gentleman, I lay my oath upon the integrity 
of this mission and of this man.” 

But he knew as he spoke that what he said 
was futile. 

Joseph Galloway had crossed the room behind 


300 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Armand’s chair, and now, with a quick movement, 
reaching from behind, thrust his hand into the young 
man’s breast and drew forth the forged parchment. 

“Document number two,” he said, tossing it upon 
the table. Armand had sprung to his feet, his 
head thrown high, a tiger gleam in his eyes. 

“Canaille!” cried Pliarne. 

Dickinson’s eye overran the writing. “Send for 
the guards!” he said, in a choked voice. “A file 
to seize him!” And Joseph Galloway went out in 
haste. 

At the word a fury of passion seemed to capture 
Armand. Those near him fell back. His dress- 
sword flashed out and drew a burnished ring about 
him. 

“Stand back !” he hurled between his teeth. “You 
shall not stop me ! Back, 1 say ! Messenger I am 
and my message I will deliver.” 

“Madman! Will he cut his way in?” cried 
Dickinson. 

Armand, dragging the curtain from its hooks, 
had gained the hall. He sprang at the great doors 
and struck them frenziedly with his sword. But 
with the first blow the light steel rattled to the 
floor broken half way to the hilt. 

When Anne had issued from the ante-room a few 


THE GREAT SUNDERING 


301 


moments before, she had emerged into the main 
corridor. She was dizzy, sick, and the last words 
of her questioner were in her ears. She found her- 
self saying them over dully. “A matter of great 
import.” “Trembling in the balance.” 

An old door-keeper in a blue coat with faded lace 
sat near-by on a wooden chair, but the day was 
warm and he was dozing. His mouth was open, 
and he had not stirred when she came out. 

She could hear the muffled voices clashing upon 
one another, coming from the main room where 
the delegates sat. The door at one end of the 
corridor opening on the green was ajar and she 
was vaguely aware, as a background, of the murmur- 
ous, multi-keyed noises that hang above an orderly 
assemblage of many people. 

And standing leaning against the wall, a swift 
knowledge came to her. The waiting crowd outside 
— her guide’s haste as he had hurried her through the 
streets from the Red Lion Tavern. A matter “of 
great import.” The Declaration ! 

They were considering it, hesitating. Armand’s 
message might have decided, and she had betrayed 
him — stay! She had the packet. It was there in 
her cloak. She must find Doctor Franklin — ah, he 
must be in there at that moment. She had sworn 
to give it into his very hands — he must read it at 


3 02 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


once — at once ! With the thought, her eager fingers 
dragged it out. 

She glanced at the old watchman. Daily famili- 
arity had made such councils hackneyed to him. 
With eyes upon him she stole to the door in the 
center. She turned the knob softly and tried it. 
It was locked. Smitten with her impotency, she 
leaned against it and rattled the knob. 

All at once she felt it giving; a key had beer 
turned from the inside. She heard the roused door 
keeper shuffling toward her, heard his protestani 
whisper, and tugged with all her strength. 

A buzz of talk that the stout panels had deadened 
clamored loud in her ears. She saw nothing but 
a broad aisle, above whose center hung an enormous, 
many-prismed chandelier, glancing back the sun- 
light. 

Tears burned her eyes to mist and her throat was 
choking. Out of the mist, as she stopped, the crowd- 
ed body of the hall stupefied her with people. The 
sound of voices rising as she had entered stilled 
in an instant to a silence, broken by an exclamation 
and the taut blow of a gavel. She was dimly con- 
scious of men — bewigged, dressed mostly in black 
and snuff-color, with white neck-cloths — one or two 
on their feet. Her fingers under her cloak clasped 
tight the precious packet — so tight she could feel 


THE GREAT SUNDERING 


303 


its ridges cut into her flesh — and a clammy faintness 
was upon her. 

Suddenly this left her and the jarring walls drew 
into place. 

She was standing in the center of a square room, 
plain-walled, with three tall barred windows at each 
side hung with green Venetian blinds. In front 
of her was a raised, square rostrum between great 
empty fire-places, and leaning over its desk, an 
elderly man gazing down. Surprise seemed carved 
upon his features, and looking, she felt a dreadful 
hysterical desire to laugh. 

Below on the floor and facing her stood a short, 
stout old man with a bald head and a fringe of white 
hair. His kindly eyes, behind great iron-rimmed 
spectacles, gave her confidence. It came to her in 
a flash that this was the great Doctor Franklin. 

Quivering, she stood befor.e him and curtsied 
low. Then she raised her hand and gave him the 
packet. 

Everything clouded after that, and the ground was 
swaying. She saw him break the seal to unfold the 
paper and start as he bent his eyes upon it. Through 
the buzz of whispered curiosity she felt a familiar 
voice strike, speaking her name, and saw the sharp 
features and foxy hair of Mr. Jefferson. His hand 
was drawing her toward the entrance. She heard 


304 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Doctor Franklin’s voice, like a great clear organ note : 
“I will lift np mine eyes nnto the hills from whence 
cometh my help.” 

Then, as they reached the doors, a clamor on the 
other side — the sound of metal striking against the 
wood. 

The hinges swung outward. She had a momentary 
glimpse of Armand standing in the corridor, white, 
disheveled, a broken sword in his hand — saw him 
starting hack, and, as the doors closed heavily be- 
hind her, she felt herself sinking into blackness. 

“Louis! Louis!” She thrust the faintness hack 
with a wail. “I could not help it!” 

His eyes were sharp spears through her heart, 
his voice like twisted agony. “Betrayed ! De- 
nounced to the Congress! Oh God! and by you! 
My honor . . my love . . my trust . . 

all ended!” 

Galloway entered from the porch with two sol- 
diers in the Continental uniform. “In the name of 
the Congress !” said Dickinson, pointing to Armand. 

“Sauve — ioi!” Pliarne’s warning vibrated with 
anxiety. He stumbled awkwardly with the cry, 
pitching in front of the soldiers, and as though to 
save himself the fall, grasped each by an ankle. 

Before they could recover from the surprise, Ar^ 


THE GREAT SUNDERING 


305 


mand, turning like a flash, had darted by them to 
the ante-room, gained the door and disappeared. 

“Quick !” gasped Anne, as the discomfited soldiers 
bolted after him. “He must not escape !” 

“Are you not satisfied, Mistress ?” demanded 
Pliarne, turning on her bitterly. 

She staggered through the torn curtain to the 
table at this, and held out to him his Lordship’s 
pledge, with a hand shaking like a wave-ripple. 

He started uncontrollably as he read it, and made 
a gesture of despair. “Le Ion Dieu !” he cried, his 
eyes filling with tears. “Unfortunate that I am! 
I have helped him to die!” 

Then she drooped forward into Pliarne’s arms. 

“Clang !” The great bell in the dome above spoke 
suddenly. Dickinson, with an exclamation, went 
out hastily, the other delegates with him. The single 
remaining spectator approached the spot where Pli- 
arne knelt chafing Anne’s hands. 

The Frenchman said no word, but he got upon 
his feet with such a look in his face that Joseph 
Galloway, his head bent down, went out slinkingly 
and with speed, like a whipped cur. 

“Clang!” 

The sound rang out again, and with its music 
mixed a vast roar of voices that penetrated from the 


306 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


streets. “Clang !” another brazen throat took it up, 
and “They sign! They sign!” came in a shout that 
shook the building. 

“Clash! Clang!” 

All the steeples in Philadelphia were shouting to 
one another now. The Great Sundering was accom- 
plished. That hour a nation was born — out of the 
clamor of bells, out of the hearts of men. 

The tidings flew from street to street, from house 
to house, from chamber to chamber. Neighbor 
hurried with it to neighbor. The well whispered it 
to the sick. Wherever it went, down came the king’s 
arms, as one would pluck a fowl, from court house, 
from market-place, from tavern, to give glory to 
bon-fires. 

It was to take wings and fly north and south — 
to the frontier in the great north woods — to 
Williamsburg, where, in the royal palace that Lord 
Dunmore had made a fort, now sat Virginia’s first 
governor, his Excellency Patrick Henry. And 
Virginia was to answer with salvos of cannon and 
with illuminations. 

But in the State House under the cupola, where 
the big bell that first pealed liberty cracked its 
throat for joy, Anne lay sobbing — 

“Louis! Listen, Louis! Listen to the bells! It 
was yours . . . your message that I gave them ! 


THE GREAT SUNDERING 


307 


Independence! It is come at last, and you have 
gone to die, because I betrayed you. But it was to 
save you, dear! Will you ever understand? Can 
you hear them, Louis? The bells! Come back! 
Come back to me — only to hear them ring! Only 
to understand !” 

General Lord Howe sat one evening a month later 
aboard the Duchess of Gordon, anchored below 
Staten Island, playing at draughts. His late sur- 
render of Boston to General Washington had ruffled 
his equanimity. But now Clinton had joined him, 
haggard from the trouncing Moultrie had given him 
in South Carolina, and his Lordship’s brother. Ad- 
miral Lord Howe, had hove to in the harbor with 
a prodigious new army in a fleet of one hundred 
and twenty sail. My Lord, therefore, felt very com- 
fortable again. 

The general’s opponent at the table. Lord Chet- 
wynde, wore lace in his sleeves and smoked a foreign 
cigarette, from which he flicked the white ash dain- 
tily with his little finger. As he sat, one felt his 
eyes, a kind of cold, keen, speculative humor in 
them. Another officer, Sir Evelyn Clarke, sat with 
legs wide apart, near-by. The glazed sconces were 
brilliantly lighted, and the room rocked pleasantly 
as the ship rose and fell to the wash. 


303 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


An aide, pausing at the cabin door, sainted. 

“Well/’ asked Lord Howe, “any one else for me?” 

“No, sir; for Lord Chetwynde. He brings a per- 
sonal communication to bis Lordship.” 

“Very well, bring him down. With your permis- 
sion, of course, my Lord.” And his Lordship turned 
to the game again. 

“I would the admiral might haste with his olive- 
branch,” he yawned, studying the draught-board 
through lazy eyelids. “ ’Tis most uncommon dull 
here. ‘Hell, Hull and Halifax’ — egad! I’d as lief 
be a prison governor at any one of them !” 

“Less room for your cursed experiments, I sup- 
pose, Charles. You were always fond of them at 
Halifax,” commented the single spectator, in an Irish 
brogue. “Why, my Lord, I remember just before 
he sailed (may you never run another jail, Charles!) 
he let a rascal out on a secret service and took his 
promise in writing to come back to him in a month 
to the noose. I hope you’ll invite me to meet him 
when he returns . . . Eh ? What ! May I bet 

the devil my head, but there he is now !” 

The pair at the table looked at the face of the man 
who had entered, and at his dress of purple velvet 
frayed with travel, and Lord Chetwynde started to 
sudden incisiveness. 

“Louis Armand !” 











































































































































THE GREAT SUNDERING 


309 


The newcomer bowed and stood silent, waiting. 

“You return in accordance with our contract, I 
presume ?” 

“ Yes , your Lordship.” 

“You are a day late.” 

“I was not aware of your Lordship’s transfer- 
ence.” 

“Burn me, but he’s been to Halifax!” exclaimed 
Lord Chetwynde under his breath. 

He sat a moment nursing his chin. Then he seized 
a paper, wrote a line and added his signature. “I 
am already informed of your attempt,” he said, “and 
of your failure. Egad, these petticoat patriots are 
everywhere! However, that was not your fault. I 
regard only the honesty of your purpose. Here is 
your release from the penalty. Consider yourself 
at liberty.” 

Armand read the paper, and then handed it back. 
“I can not accept it, your Lordship,” he said. 

“Why not?” demanded Lord Howe in astonish- 
ment. 

“I did not intend to deliver the message given 
me to the Congress. Had I been admitted I should 
have delivered a very different one.” 

“May I bet the devil my head!” ejaculated Sir 
Evelyn. 

Lord Chetwynde flung away his cigarette, his keen 


310 


HEARTS UOTTRAGEOTTS 


eyes on Armand’s, and tore np tlie paper slowly. 
“That alters the case,” he said. “My Lord, I suppose 
I shall have to trouble you to hang this honest rene- 
gade for me?” 

“Too pleased!” said Howe. “The first thing in 
the morning, Charles. Take him on deck and come 
and finish the game.” 

“My obligation is at an end?” asked Armand. 

“Of course, of course,” acquiesced his Lordship. 
“Excuse me, my Lord; I’ll be back presently — pre- 
cede me, if you please.” 

He opened the door and his prisoner passed before 
him to the star-lighted deck. The next instant Ar- 
mand had leaped to the bulwarks and thrown himself 
into the sea. 

There was strident confusion, a running forward 
of marines and a turning of lanterns on to the water. 
“Better lower a boat,” advised Lord Chetwynde. 

“Ho time for that.” Sir Evelyn’s voice was at 
his elbow. “A hundred yards and you’ll never find 
him. Guard, send your surest marksman "here to 
pick him off.” 

“There he is,” bawled a voice, as the sharpshooter 
came forward. “I see his head.” 

“I think,” said Lord Chetwynde, “laying a hand 
On the weapon, “that I’ll have a shot myself.” Tak- 


THE GREAT SUNDERING 


311 


ing it from the man’s hand, he laid the long barrel 
on the rail and drew a slow and careful sight. 

“Better he quick, sir,” counseled the guard, anx- 
iously. “He’s a strong swimmer. He’ll be out of 
range presently.” 

“Sir Evelyn,” spoke his Lordship, testily, “a little 
farther from my elbow, please. There, damme. I’ve 
lost sight of him! Eh? Where? Oh, yes.” He 
sighted again with deliberation and fired. 

“Missed, by Harry !” he cried in a tone of chagrin. 

The stars rocked dimly in the tide. “Too bad, 
sir!” said the captain of the marines. “No use 
to lower a boat now — ’tis too dark to find a whale; 
he’ll be ashore in twenty minutes.” 

“Another of your damned experiments, Charles/ 
said Sir Evelyn. 


CHAPTER XX 


THE WAKE OF WAR 

It was a gloomy Virginia to which Anne returned 
that anxious fall — a Virginia whose heart beat with 
the North, where Howe was weaving his famous 
cord to encircle the throat of the monster Rebellion. 
Pastoral life had ended abruptly; the Golden Age 
had become one of Iron. “And all the women that 
were wise-hearted, did spin with their hands.” 

Those Virginia women! They stayed at home 
through all the fear and loss and wonder of that 
early campaign when tried armies met untried ones. 
They wrote brave letters to their husbands and sons 
riding with Washington and marching in the ranks 
under Wayne and Weedon. And, cheering them- 
selves how they might, they sold their jewels, melted 
their clock-weights for bullets, tore up their dresses 
to make flags and their underclothes for lint and 
bandages. 

Gladden Hall suffered with the rest. Colonel 
Tillotson was much away on affairs of the Committee 
312 


THE WAKE OF WAR 


313 


of Safety, or at Williamsburg conferring with his 
Excellency Governor Henry; and the looms which 
wove at all turned out cloth for Continental uni- 
forms. Across the plant-rows, where the negroes 
hoed, Groam, the overseer, with cowhide under his 
arm and his old Fontenoy bell-mouth tower musket 
strapped on his back, still walked his horse with 
ferret eyes under his broad-brimmed hat. But there 
was little leaf raised, and the wharves at the foot of 
the lawn were overgrown with weeds. 

Inside the great house there was the same candle- 
lighted dining-room, the high-backed chairs, the tall, 
cumbrous clock, the portraits, the polished sideboard 
reflecting the slender-stemmed glasses. But the 
meals were silent. 

Anne’s trouble hung over the household in a 
shadow that was not lightened by the presence of 
vaster ones near at hand. She had sorrowed with 
that festering sorrow that is self-accusatory. And 
to know that never so few, aware of her part in 
that Philadelphia scene, believed her to have done 
a heroic thing, was like an added death to her. 
For a time she had fled for refuge to her old pas- 
sion for the cause. But the effort failed. 

One day early in the Hew Year, when the world 
was dusted with delicate frost like seed-pearl, 
Colonel Tillotson brought to Gladden Hall the 


314 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


news of how “the old fox of Mt. Vernon,” by a 
wily double across the icy Delaware, had taken the 
Hessians at Trenton. Anne heard it apathetically; 
to her despair, victory and defeat spelled the same. 

When the door closed upon her, the colonel looked 
at his wife silently. “And she still believes in 
him!” 

“As she believes in us,” replied the lady softly. 
“Colonel,” she said keenly, “you have heard news.” 

“Aye,” he answered, after a pause, “I have. A 
reply came to Mr. Henry’s confidential inquiries to- 
day. There is no doubt that Armand is the same 
prisoner who escaped from the Duchess of Gordon 
off Amboy last August.” 

“Thank God !” breathed Mrs. Tillotson, fervently. 
“I am glad ; I can’t help it.” 

“Anne had better not know. ’Twill do her no 
possible good.” 

“Colonel,” said the lady decisively, “in this I 
must have my way. I am going to tell her just 
as fast as I can.” She rose, laid aside her knit- 
ting, took up a candle, and left him standing dubi- 
ously before the fire. 

The light came back to Anne like the spring sun; 
the great horror was gone, and in spite of the war’s 
gloom, Gladden Hall grew more cheerful again* 


THE WAKE OF WAR 


315 


She devoured the columns of the Gazettes, and read 
eagerly letters which came to Henry from abroad. 

These told her how the Reprisal, dodging the 
British sloops of war, had landed Benjamin Frank- 
lin safely at Nantes, of his meeting there with 
Beaumarchais, and of his reception in Paris at the 
little hotel in the Rue Vieille du Temple , where a 
mercantile sign of “Roderiqne Hortalez & Co.” 
hid a pleasant conspiracy whose object was the fur- 
nishing of war supplies to the American colonists, 
and whose silent partners were a prime minister 
and a king. Somewhere, she thought, there in his 
own land, perhaps, Armand was safe — not believing 
in her, but free and uncondemned. 

The sound of war came nearer when Howe’s fleet 
sailed into the Chesapeake, and when Henry, sum- 
moned in haste from Hanover, called out the 
militia. She watched them march through Wil- 
liamsburg, sixty-four companies strong; but the fleet 
and the army it carried sailed on, to beat back 
Washington at Brandywine, to enter Philadelphia, 
and turn the grave town into an orgie of Tory re- 
joicing. 

Philip Freneau was still mixing caustic ink. The 
sparkling vitriol of his rhyming was flying on satire 
wings through the length and breadth of the land. 


316 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


It was a time now when the pen was become mighty 
— when more money was offered in Royalist Hew 
York for the capture of a Quaker editor of a 
'Jrenton Gazette than for the body of a Continental 
governor of Hew Jersey. And this adventurous 
scape-grace, with the spirit of his Huguenot an- 
cestors who escaped over-sea with the Pintards and 
the DeLanceys after Louis XIY revoked the 
Edict of Nantes, was putting liberty into type — was 
sending out songs of virile vigor to he chanted in the 
patriots’ line, to hearten dog-day marches and camps 
in bloody snows. 

So the months passed, in alternate hope and de- 
spair. Spring unfurled, summer dropped its blooms, 
autumn singed glebe and copse, snow fell and puri- 
fied the earth-stains. And at last Virginia knew 
that Burgoyne had been entrapped in the northern 
forests; that Philadelphia had been evacuated; that 
the cord which was to encircle the throat of the 
Rebellion had snapped; that France had recognized 
independence and made a treaty of alliance with 
the United States. 

There followed a closer campaign when Lord 
Germaine, the king’s war minister, having failed 
to strangle the monster, attacked its extremities — 
when the red-coats swept into the southern harbors, 
when Savannah and Augusta fell, when Lincoln’s 


THE WAKE OF WA1* 


317 


army was caught at Charles-town, and Gates routed 
at Camden — and these were the South’s darkest 
days. 

It knew there was no hope from the army in the 
North, meager, ill-clothed, half -starved, without 
magazines, arsenals or credit. Washington lay 
watching like a hawk Clinton’s ten thousand men at 
New York, hoping for an effective force from 
France, waiting with the sublime patience which, 
more than all else, made him a great soldier. 

Virginia bore her burdens uncomplainingly — 
giving of her substance to the struggle, while the 
slaves which Cornwallis sent scampering from 
burned lower plantations trailed through her bor- 
ders, sowing insurrection among the faithful blacks. 

“Jokn-the-Baptist,” demanded Anne sternly, one 
day, after Groam had reported that scarce fifty 
slaves remained in the quarters, “an the British 
come here, are you going to run away, too ?” 

“Mis’ Anne!” he complained appealingly. “Don’ 
yo’ know no ’spectable nigger gwineter list’n to 
dem shif’less trash whut go ramshacklin’ eroun’ 
widout no homes? Dee ain’ no ’count; yo’ couldn 3 
swap ’em off fo’ shucks. Yo’ knows I ain’ nuvver 
gwine leabe de plantation whar I wuz drug up. 
Dat Cornwallis ! Huh ! Dis nigger smell de brim- 
stone whut’s huntin’ fo’ him!” 


318 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


When the sky looked blackest came General 
Nathaniel Greene into the south, young, light-heart- 
ed and eager. And what did he not accomplish ? He 
welded anew the scattered remnants of Gates’s army, 
fanned North Carolinian Whiggery into a blaze, beat 
Tarleton, sent Cornwallis back, breathing hard, to 
the sea-coast. It was the end of the second cam- 
paign. 

“What will King George do now?” Anne asked 
Henry jubilantly. 

His face was very grave as he answered: “There 
is only one thing left; ’tis a stroke at the heart of 
the rebellion. And that heart is here in Virginia.” 
He guessed truly. 

There were hasty preparations for flight through- 
out the lower peninsula on that snow-shod day when 
the traitor Arnold’s fifty ships came to anchor off 
James-town Island. The sky was a ceiling of trans- 
lucent gray. The stubby cedars trailed sweeping 
boughs of crystalled beryl, and every shrub was 
cased in argent armor. Fleet horsemen had ridden 
from Williamsburg in all directions, rousing the 
frozen countryside. 

At noon Anne took her place in the chariot be- 
side Mrs. Tillotson, bound for Doctor Walker’s of 
Castle Hill, far enough north to be beyond the reach 


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319 


of the invaders. Her aunt was to fare even farther, 
to Berkeley. 

They waved brave good-bys through tears to the 
little group of house negroes whimpering on the 
porch. Rashleigh was to go with the remaining 
servants to Brandon, Mammy Evaline was left in 
charge of the place, and John-the-Baptist, her son, 
was to care for the horses and run them off on 
approach of the British. The house linen and silver 
Anne had buried with her own hands, and the 
family portraits had been hidden under the stables. 

It was a sad journey, but one performed that day 
by more than one household. 

Colonel Tillotson rode a part of the way beside 
the coach. “’Twill not be for long,” he insisted 
cheeringly. “I have assurance from Mr. Henry 
that Washington will send troops before spring 
breaks. He thought it would be General Lafayette 
. — the young French marquis who passed through 
Williamsburg, you remember. Would Washington 
himself could come!” he added fervently. 

But his wife was not to be comforted. “Colonel,” 
she cried brokenly, “I feel sure we shall never see 
Gladden Hall again.” 

More than once before spring came tiptoeing down 


320 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


the trees, Anne looked out to the north from quiet 
Castle Hill, homesick for a sight of Greenway Court 
and Baron Fairfax. Weakness and age had at last 
sent the old man to his chair, and he sat through 
the long days, sorrowfully patient, as his ancestor, 
the hero of Naseby fight, sat at Denton in York- 
shire, waiting the coming of the victorious banners 
of the king. 

The beginnings of the struggle had found him 
doggedly wrathful. 

“‘Bill of Rights/ aigh?” he would shout. “I 
want no benefit of it. I am a Colonial, and loyal.” 

And when his neighbors contended that what they 
stood for was the old issue for which their ancestors 
broke pikes at Marston Moor, he turned his back 
upon them. 

In the Old Dominion there was comparative tran- 
quillity, but even in the forest he had heard the 
first blare of the king’s armies in Boston and New 
York with a hungering fear that drew his eyes 
often wistfully toward Mt. Vernon. There sat the 
lad he had trained and molded, “the first soldier 
in Virginia,” a grave man. They whispered evil 
things of this man’s loyalty now, but the baron for 
long shut his ears and would not hear. 

The time came soon when Tories were hated, de- 
spised, driven by fire from their homes, their prop- 


THE WAKE OF WAR 


321 


erty confiscate. But this old man alone was not 
touched. 

“Let the rebels come!” he had roared, pounding 
the floor with his thorn stick. “Let them come ! 
I met the Indians here in fifty-five, and I leave for 
no cursed rebels. The king may not be able to pro- 
tect, but he will reimburse me.” 

But Tories and Whigs passed by alike, and not 
a pound was touched in his store-house, not a horse 
taken from his stables. When the foragers swept 
the valleys, his field slaves slunk away with the 
rest, but he had not a house negro who did not 
stay with him to the end. 

The final chapter was opened at last. Lafayette 
was marching southward with twelve hundred of 
Washington’s own light infantry! The word had 
struck sharper than an adder’s tooth. The bloody 
snows of Valley Forge, the pelting retreat through 
the Jersies, want, rout, discouragement and despair ! 
The king must win, and George Washington was 
gone too far even for love’s forgiveness. Now he 
sent his rebels to his own natal Colony to hurl them, 
in a final desperate attack, at the king’s throat. 

After this news the baron took to his couch and 
closed his doors against report. Through all the 
war Washington had found time to send gentle and 
tender letters to his old friend. These my Lord 


322 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


had read, longing for some sign of sorrow or of 
turning, but they had brought none. Now he read 
no more. 

One morning Anne stood at the deep-set window 
of her room at Castle Hill. Far away, their dim 
splendor relieved by golden gorges of early sun- 
light, reared the solitary mountains, hung with pale 
green, pale gold, and blent lavender and gray like 
faded tapestries. The June breeze was soft with 
the first thrill of summer, blowing across the shelv- 
ing fields. Birds were fluting in the tulip-trees, 
and the dewed odor of roses lay on the garden, 
drenchingly sweet. The place seemed safe folded 
from the war that lay, a sullen fiend in a cloud, far 
away across the Virginia hills. 

A distant clatter came to her, and she looked and 
listened where the eastern road bent behind clusters 
of trees. Almost before she had guessed the mean- 
ing of the sound, a troop of dragoons, whose red 
coats proclaimed them British, dashed into view 
and rode at top-speed toward the house. 

The British! So far to the westward. What 
could it mean? Then, in clutching apprehension, 
she fled downstairs to Mrs. Walker’s room, to find 
that lady already dressing with speed and trepida- 
tion. As she opened the door, the yard below 


THE WAKE OE WAR 


323 


swarmed with a confusion of soldiers and shrieking 
servants. 

“Stay where you are/’ came Doctor Walker’s voice 
from the next room. “I am going.” 

“No, Doctor,” Mrs. Walker opposed. “I am go- 
ing myself.” And go she did, Anne with her. 

Aunt Daph’, the cook, having fled from the 
kitchen, was crouched shuddering at the foot of the 
stair. “Dem’s de Britishers, missus!” she moaned 
— “dem’s de Britishers!” 

“I know it,” answered Mrs. Walker calmly, as a 
knock thundered at the door. “Go back to your 
kitchen.” 

The figure on the threshold bowed till his plumes 
swept the sill. 

“Pardon me. Madam — ladies,” he began, “but I 
must ask of your hospitality a breakfast for myself 
and my officers. I may introduce myself? Colonel 
Tarleton, of the British Legion, at your service.” 

Anne caught an astonished breath at realization 
that she was standing before the most dreaded of 
Cornwallis’s cavalry leaders. Could this red-cheeked, 
petulant-lipped lad be the dragoon of whose cruelty 
and daring she had so often heard? She curtsied 
slowly to his bow. 

“I might add,” announced the visitor, “that no 


324 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


harm shall be done this property. We have busi- 
ness farther on.” 

Farther on! Anne’s mind leaped to the thought 
of Charlottesville only six miles away. The Vir- 
ginia Assembly was in session there. And Henry! 
She must gain a little time. 

“Let me see to the breakfast, Mrs. Walker,” she 
volunteered; “Aunt Daph’ is quite distracted.” 

Tarleton smiled, bowed again to her, and clanked 
to the door. Then Anne caught Mrs. Walker’s hand 
and whispered: “’Tis a raid on the Assembly. 
We must keep them here as long as possible. Tell 
the doctor.” 

She had no time to speak further, for Tarleton 
re-entered with the others. 

“I have been obliged to set a guard about the 
negro quarters and at the front and rear entrances 
of the house,” he said. “We shall soon relieve you 
of this inconvenience. Ah, Doctor, good-morning !” 

Anne betook herself to the kitchen and stirred 
Aunt Daph’ to activity. While the great fire roared, 
her brain was busy. She must get through that 
cordon of red-coats — must ! — must ! 

As the cook piled the irons with fragments of 
chicken, Anne’s eyes, through the back door and 
window, took in the situation. Full a dozen troop- 
ers were grouped there, stretched lazily in the sun, 


THE WAKE OF WAR 


325 


their horses hobbled and cropping the grass eagerly in 
a widening half-circle. The quarters were on the 
farther side, ont of sight from the kitchen. See- 
ing, she bade Aunt DaplF lay more of the chicken 
on the racks, and herself fed the fire till its heat 
scorched her cheeks. 

“ ’Clar ter goodness. Mis’ Anne, yo’ got ’nuff 
dar fo’ fo’ty, ’stid o’ fo’ !” 

“Hush!” Anne commanded ; “go and lay one of 
the tables in the milk-room.” 

The negress raised her hands. 

“Wid all dem sojers out dar? Gordamighty, 
honey, dee jes’ split my haid wide op’n!” 

“Do as I tell you,” said Anne. “They won’t 
hurt you. Make no noise, and come back quickly.” 

The old woman made her way gingerly past the 
groups across the yard. 

“Mis’ Anne,” she said as she came back, all her 
teeth gleaming, “one ob dem Britishers call to me 
jes’ lak folks. ‘Hopes yo’ got sumpin’ good fo’ 
us, too, auntie,’ he say. Lawd, honey, I reck’n dee’s 
pow’ful hongry ter smell dis yere!” 

Anne heaped a great platter high from the drip- 
ping grids, and flanked it with a pyramid of corn 
bread. 

“Now, Aunt Daph’,” she breathed, excitedly, “take 
this. Hold it high and fall not on the steps. When 


326 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


you come to the milk-room door you are to tell the 
soldiers that the colonel in here says they are all 
to have their breakfast at once. Do you under- 
stand ?” 

“Yas’m. Yas’m. But dis yere chick’n’s er heap 
too good fo’ dem low-down nosin’ debbles !” 

Anne watched her through the door in a quiver 
of apprehension. Would they go? She prayed 
frantically that they would smell that savory odor. 
She heard the laugh of the officers in the next room, 
and above it, the tones of the cook outside, now 
scornfully belligerent : 

“Yore cun’l in dar say yo’ is ter eat dis yere up 
mighty quick er yo’ don’ git nuttin’ ’tall.” 

There was a murmur among the troopers. It 
was a fearful temptation. Then they succumbed 
before that delicate aroma, and while Anne held 
her breath, the last guard had overcome his scru- 
ples and vanished into the milk-room. 

She did not wait an instant, but slipped out hat- 
less and was away like a flash to the outer ring of 
horses. Her eye picked the speediest with the un- 
erring judgment of the born horsewoman. She 
leaped to his back, took the yard paling, and flew 
across the soft loam field to the high-road. 

When Lieutenant-Colonel Banistre Tarleton en- 
tered the kitchen smilingly to see why breakfast 


THE WAKE OF WAR 


327 

delayed, he found the room empty and sounds from 
the out-house told him the rest. The petulant- 
lipped lad became instantly a raging demoniac, 
and the crestfallen men tumbled out, mounting with 
a speed increased by threats and revilings. 

A sight of the horseless trooper sent the leader’s 
passion leaping to knowledge. “’Tis the girl,” he 
cried. “Damnation! She’s off to warn them!” 

And his curses suddenly mixed themselves with 
steel-sharp orders. 

Mrs. Walker wrung her hands as the last trooper 
galloped off after the rest on a horse impressed 
from the stables. 

“God grant they don’t catch her!” she prayed. 

As Anne sped along the curving stretch of road 
over the low hill spurs, she leaned to the horse’s 
mane, crying to him: “Run, you splendid boy! 
Run ! ’Tis to save the Assembly !” And the great 
creature, slim, lustrous, blood-bay, snorted and set- 
tled to action, his limpid eye catching the terror- 
white as if he, stolen from some Virginia stable, 
knew what the words meant. 

Gallop and gallop; she heard the red clods patter 
on the road behind as she went. One mile — two 
miles. The wind-warped trees stretched by in a 
whirling, drunken race of foliaged dervishes. Three 
miles . . . they must surely know by now. 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


328 

She passed two riders and noted their glance ‘of 
wonder. One called out to her, but she did not stop. 
The terrific pace made her breath come jaggedly, 
and it was only by a supreme effort that she kept 
her seat on the pommelless saddle. 

The last two miles flung away in a dulled red 
roar. 

There were groups upon the court house steps 
when she pulled up her frothing horse, and Henry 
himself pushed forward to her side. 

“Tarleton — ■” she panted. “At Castle Hill , 0 

coming to . . take the Assembly.” 

Henry turned and repeated the message. It was 
caught up on all sides and bandied up and down 
the corridors. There was a rush for the sheds and 
hurried mounting. Then another cry spread; Jef- 
ferson — he was at Monticello. 

“How much time?” asked Henry briefly of Anne. 

“Ten minutes,” she answered at hazard. 

“Too little. They will be upon him before this.” 
He brought his horse and vaulted into the saddle. 
“Will Tarleton know you have come ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then you must not stay,” he said firmly. “You 
shall ride with me.” 

Before she could answer, a horseman came clat- 


THE WAKE OF WAR 


329 


tering in from a bridle-path. It was Colonel Carter, 
and he took in the preparations at a glance. 

“Good!” he shouted. “Lose no time, gentlemen. 
Captain Jonett has warned Monticello. The As- 
sembly stands dissolved, to meet at Staunton three 
days hence.” 

About noon hoofs rang behind them in the flinty 
road, and Henry and Anne reined their horses into 
the brush. Two more riders galloped by, to wheel 
and come back at Henry’s halloo. They were Mr. 
John Tyler and Colonel Harrison. Fatigued and 
hungry as they were, both essayed to smile. 

“Is Jefferson safe?” cried Henry. 

“Aye,” Colonel Harrison assured him. “The 
family are gone to Colonel Carter’s, and all of the 
gentlemen who were at Monticello are in the moun- 
tains. ’Twas a narrow squeak.” 

A rivulet full of crystal bravery plashed down be- 
side the spot where they had halted, and Henry, 
dropping a lank leg over his horse’s neck, jumped 
to the ground and twisted a cup from a leaf. 

“Let us drink to Tarleton’s speedy return to Corn- 
wallis,” said Tyler. 

“Kay,” Henry smiled, raising the spilling cup 
toward Anne, “but — may his coming ne’er lack so 
fair and so swift an advance courier l” 


330 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“Whither think yon we had best ride?” Colonel 
Harrison asked, as they started. 

“Lafayette is nigh the Rapid-Ann,” said Henry. 
“F faith,” with a smile at the girl beside him, 
“the man who named it should have seen yon ride! 
Best to reach onr own lines for the night and to- 
morrow we will off for Stannton. Ely’s house 
should be near our troops; and Mistress Tillotson 
can get safe escort to Fredericksburg.” 

At mid-afternoon they stopped at a small hut in 
a gorge and asked for something to eat. A mus- 
cular, tallow-faced old woman, seemingly the sole 
occupant, planted herself uncompromisingly in the 
doorway and demanded of them who they were, in 
a tone of manifest suspicion. 

“We are members of the Assembly,” said Mr. 
Tyler. 

“And what do ye here in the woods?” 

“We have just been compelled to leave Charlottes- 
ville by the approach of the enemy.” 

The old woman shook her slate-colored head, 
stuck her arms akimbo, and glared at them. 

“Ye have, have ye?” she blurted. “Ye cowardly 
knaves! Here my men folks air all out a-fightin’ 
the Britishers fer ye, an’ ye’re runnin’ away with 
all yer might. Clear out, fer ye’ll get nothin’ 
here.” 


THE WAKE OF WAR 


331 


The look which Tyler turned upon the rest was 
so full of blended hunger and chagrin that they 
could scarce maintain their gravity. 

“But, my good woman,” Mr. Tyler expostulated, 
“we were obliged to. ’Twould not do to have the 
whole Legislature captured by Cornwallis. Here,” 
he continued, pointing, “is Mr. Speaker Harrison; 
you don’t think he would have fled if it hadn’t been 
necessary ?” 

She pursed her lips and jerked her chin with an 
audible sniff. 

“I alius thought right smart of Colonel Harri- 
son till now,” she answered, “but he’d no business 
to tuck tail an’ run.” 

“Wait a moment. Madam.” Henry smoothed the 
wrinkles of mirth from his face as she was about 
to close the door in their faces. “Wait a moment. 
You have surely heard of Mr. Tyler. You would 
hardly believe that he would take to flight without 
good reason ?” 

“That I wouldn’t.” 

“But here he is,” finished Henry, with a wave of 
his hand. 

She stood a moment nonplussed. “Sakes o’ 
mercy!” she ejaculated, with sagging cheeks, “I 
wouldn’t a thought it ! I’d a’ swore he'd never run 


332 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


from a red-coat. But seein’ he has, he’ll get nary 
bite to eat in my house. Ye kin ride on.” 

It was Henry’s turn now to look comical dismay, 
but Anne met his smile and flashed in. 

“Suppose — suppose one should tell you that 
Patrick Henry had run with the rest ?” 

“Patrick Henry?” burst out the other angrily. 
“I’d tell ye it was a passle o’ lies ! I reckon we’uns 
know him. My old man was at the nabbin’ o’ J ohnny 
Burgoyne, an’ now my boys air boun’ ter ketch that 
sarpint Co’nwallis. Next year all three on ’em air 
goin’ arter Clinton down ter Hew York. Mebbe 
ye think they'd run from the Britishers! Patrick 
Henry! If he run at all, ’twould be arter ’em, I 
kin tell ye.” 

“And yet,” Anne said soberly, “this is Mr. 
Henry.” 

The old woman stared astounded, her hands 
twitching at her apron strings. She came close and 
gazed earnestly into his face. 

“So it is,” she said slowly; “so it is. I seen you 
onct ten year back, in Charlottesville. Well then, 
if Patrick Henry done it, it must be all right. 
’Light an’ come in. Y’all kin have the best on the 
place.” 

After the meal and rest, the four rode some hours 
through shaggy ravines strewn with wrack of storm. 


THE WAKE OF WAR 


333 


where the green veins of every growing thing ran 
flush with frenzied sap; then to the low valleys of 
the Rapid- Ann. And here at last, spirals of smoke 
showed them where Lafayette lay encamped, wait- 
ing a junction with Wayne to march against Corn- 
wallis. 

The first challenge they met came from a detach- 
ment of Virginia riflemen, and, finding an old 
friend in their commander. Major Call, Colonel 
Harrison and Mr. Tyler elected to go no farther. 
Ely’s house, Henry learned, was but a few miles 
beyond the picket-lines, and as to the morrow’s escort 
for Anne, the major sent a lieutenant with them a 
mile down the river to headquarters to ask it. 

It was a picturesque encampment through which 
they passed. There were few tents; mere wigwams 
of fresh-cut boughs to shed the dew. Here and 
there fires of blazing fence-rails glowed yellowly in 
the gathering twilight. 

The tent of the acting colonel of the Virginia 
Continental regiment was pitched apart on a patch 
of beaten grass. Stools and a light folding-table 
holding pen and paper sat just outside the open 
flaps, from whose angle a lantern hung, already 
winking in the dusk. 

Benches were on one side, and here, while their 
horses were cared for, Henry and Anne seated them- 


334 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


selves to wait. Near-by the dusty silver of sycamores 
swayed against the shredded carnation of the sky, 
and from the distance, through the warm evening, 
came the hum of the camp, noises of mess-preparing 
and the tramp and neigh of horses. 

They sat awhile silent, Anne’s every nerve tired. 
Henry watched her. How softly white her cheeks, 
how deep the longing in her eyes ! 

“’Twas a quick plan and a splendid ride,” he 
said at length. “A brave act, as are all of yours!” 

She cringed suddenly. “I hate that word so!” 
she implored, and he knew of what she was thinking. 

All at once she looked at him, speaking earnestly : 
“Do you believe I shall ever see him? Oh, if he 
could but know! But know that I was not false 
to him in my heart. At first I thought I would be 
content to know he was alive, even if I never saw 
him again . . if he hated me ! But now . . 
now, I would give my lifo to hear him say that he 
forgave me !” 

It was as if all the pent-up longing of the past 
time burst out in a flood. Her voice had sunk very 
low with the last words, for the lieutenant had 
approached again. 

A horse pulled up before the tent and its rider 
dismounted. He wore the uniform of a colonel 
of the line, and even in the half-light, both the 


THE WAKE OF WAR 


335 


watchers saw how strangely pallid his clear-cut 
features showed beneath the straight black peruke 
he wore. 

An orderly sprang from the tent to lead away 
the dancing horse, and the lieutenant saluted: 

“A gentleman to see you. Colonel. He requests 
escort to-night for a lady to Ely’s, and to-morrow to 
Fredericksburg.” 

The colonel had seated himself at the table, and 
was spreading out a parchment map in the glow of 
the lantern. “Where are they ?” 

“They are here, sir.” 

As they came forward into the light, the seated 
figure settled back in the shadow and shaded his 
eyes with his hand. The lieutenant saluted and 
withdrew a little distance. 

When the colonel spoke, it was in a muffled 
voice. “Your name, sir?” 

Henry told him. 

“For what lady do you wish this escort?” The 
black peruke was bent over the table. The quill 
was scratching. 

“For this lady.” 

Anne had been staring, breathless, fascinated, her 
eyes fixed in a humid pain. She took a step nearer, 
stretching out her arms, her lips trembling to a 
sob. 


336 


HEAETS COUEAGEOUS 


“Louis !” Her breath clung about the name. 
Henry swallowed an exclamation. 

At the whisper, the head lifted, and Armand’s 
deep eyes looked at them out of a granite-pale face. 
They went past her as if she had been the air, and 
rested again on Henry. 

“Her name?” he asked with an effort. 

Anne drew back as if from a tangible blow. She 
flushed, and her eyes iced with a glint of the old, 
undying pride. She drew herself up and answered 
for Henry. 

“Anne Tillotson,” she said. But in spite of her- 
self, a throb of pain beat through the clear words. 

A moment’s silence, through which the pen wrote 
slowly. Then Armand rose unsteadily as the lieu- 
tenant came forward, and thrust the order he had 
written into his hand. 

“Conduct them,” he said in a choked voice, and 
with his salute the tent flaps fell behind him. 

“I warrant you found Colonel Armand a brusque 
cavalier,” said the lieutenant as they pounded out 
of camp. “He is somewhat of a mystery, they say. 
Ho one knows where he came from. He joined the 
army in seventy-seven, and Washington took him 
up because he taught the militia brigades the drill 
like a French guardsman. He was at Valley Forge, 
too, and in Hew Jersey under Lafayette. He en- 


THE WAKE OF WAR 


337 


listed a legion of his own — it was cut to pieces at 
Camden. He’s young, too, but he fights like Mad 
Anthony Wayne.” 

Anne had no reply to make. In the darkness, she 
leaned her head to her horse’s mane and wept with 
a rage of tears. 

“He is fighting for us,” she told herself over and 
over with a thrill, and ended it as often with a 
mental wail. 

“But he will never forgive me — never — never — 
never 1” 


CHAPTER XXI 


IN' THE TRENCHES 

Henry contrived to send early news of Anne’s 
safety to Castle Hill, so that when she returned there 
she found the household undisturbed. 

The sound of war had moved eastward, down the 
peninsula. Lafayette, the “boy,” who the British 
commander wrote could not escape him, without 
sufficient men to meet his adversary went playing 
chase-the-fox. He hung on Cornwallis’s flanks cover- 
ing the American stores, anticipated his moves, 
harassed him, worried him with a thousand pin- 
pricks. In return, Tarleton and Simcoe played their 
wanton mischief, slaughtered the cattle, cut the 
throats of the young horses, destroyed the growing 
corn and tobacco and burned the barns. The path 
of the British front remained a trail of ruin and 
desolation. 

Anne’s sight of Armand at the river camp had 
seared her heart with a wish to be less far from him. 
She dreamed of battle-fields on which he lay dying 
— and she still misunderstood, still unforgiven. 

338 


IN' THE TRENCHES 


339 


Letters meantime came from Betsy Byrd. Her 
father had been failing in health, was taking no part 
in the struggle, and so far Westover had been in 
no way molested. Francis was a captain in Weedon’s 
regiment. 

“Only think, dear,” wrote Betsy; “’tis the same 
old man who kept the tavern at Fredericksburg. 
To think of Frank serving under him!” An un- 
conscious indication of the maternal leanings. 

If other were needed, it was easily to be found. 
General Arnold had stopped for dinner on his raid 
upon Richmond, and Cornwallis had crossed the 
river at Westover and had been entertained. Pages 
were devoted to a description of Tarleton, over whom 
Betsy went into raptures. 

Spurred by her craving for nearer news of. the 
armies than reached Charlottesville, Anne answered 
in person the invitation the letters held, rode to 
Richmond with Henry when he returned from the 
Assembly at Staunton, and from Richmond came in 
two hours 5 sail to Westover. 

The war had touched Mrs. Byrd lightly. She was 
as handsome and as peppery as ever and exhibited a 
certainty of British plans which Anne had occasion 
to remember later, when there were no gentle 
whispers of investigating the self-satisfied lady’s 
conduct. She treated the visitor, however, on this 


340 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


occasion, with consideration and refrained from 
using the word “rebel” oftener than she deemed 
necessary. Nor did she gibe at Francis’s commis- 
sion in the Continental army. 

A week spent at Westover, the Byrd pinnace took 
Anne down the river to Burwell’s, a proceeding at 
which Mrs. Byrd feebly protested, as the place was 
within a half dozen miles of Williamsburg, now the 
center of activity of both armies. But Anne re- 
minded her that Colonel Tillotson was with Governor 
Nelson’s militia in the neighborhood, and would not 
be dissuaded. 

The first hours of her arrival at Burwell’s were 
gilded by two bits of news: one that her uncle was 
daily expected there, the other that Gladden Hall 
was as yet undisturbed. 

But this latter gleam was soon to be clouded. 
Mammy Evaline appeared the morning after Anne’s 
arrival, half-crazed with grief and fear that was not 
appeased by the unexpected sight of her mistress. 

She threw herself in a quivering heap and clasped 
Anne’s feet. 

“Gord, Gord, honey!” she sobbed. “Dee come et 
las’! Co’nwallis done ransack Gladden Hall las’ 
night en he sojers kyar’d meh po’ boy erway wid ’em. 
Whut’s we ter do, honey? Dee’s dar now. Yo’ 
reck’n dee done kilt him yit?” 


IN THE TRENCHES 


341 


Anne stooped and patted the jerking shoulder. 
“Don’t cry. Mammy,” she comforted; “John-the- 
Baptist belongs to me. Do you suppose any Britisher 
would dare to hurt him ?” 

“Dat’s whut I tol’ ’em, honey; dat’s whut I tol’ 
’em. T)at boy ’longs ter meh li’l mis’,’ I says, ‘en 
yo’ karnt tech er ha’r er he haid !’ En dee look at me 
pizen-lak, and one say ter go ’way, fo’ dee gwineter 
cut off he years!” She ended in a wail. 

“Now, Mammy,” chid Anne with decision, “don’t 
you be frightened. I shall see that he is given 
back.” 

The old woman caught her breath in a sob of joy. 
“Oh, meh li’l’ lamb ! I knows yo’ gwineter mek ’em 
let meh boy go ! I knows et !” and she went away, 
trusting, to the quarters. 

An hour later Anne took the York-town high-road, 
mounted on the least tempting of the horses the 
Burwells kept hidden in the woods. Opposite Will- 
iamsburg she cL ubed a knoll, but could see little 
sign of life in its deserted streets. Small wonder, 
for Cornwallis was only a handful of miles away. 
Here she turned to her left into an unused bridle- 
path, leading by a short cut to Gladden Hall. 

She went boldly enough, with many self-assurances, 
and so, a bare half mile from the gates, rode full 


342 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


tilt upon a group of British soldiery resting in the 
6hade. 

They sprang to their feet as her horse went back 
upon his haunches, and two of them seized his bridle, 
but dropped it at a word from an officer. The latter 
came forward. 

“Your pardon, Mistress,” he said courteously but 
firmly. ‘You can not pass farther in this direc- 
tion.” 

“Why not?” she asked calmly. “’Tis the first 
time I was ever denied entrance to my own home.” 

He bowed now, with hat in his hand. “General 
Cornwallis occupies the house at present as his own 
quarters.” 

“I know it. I have personal business with his 
Lordship.” 

“In that case,” he responded, “you may pass. I 
shall take pleasure in escorting you. I am one of 
the general’s aides.” 

He mounted, and they rode in silence to the 
gates. Here and there a picket stepped from the 
roadside, but saluted as he saw her guide. 

At the entrance to the grounds the ruin revealed 
brought a pang to her heart. The hedges were 
trampled down, the marbles along the drive defaced, 
and a wisp of smoke still curled from the burned 


IN THE TRENCHES 


343 


barns. She choked back her tears, feeling the other’s 
eyes covertly upon her. 

How familiar seemed the broad-columned porch, 
the windows, the wide door — but how unfamiliar now 
in its desolation! 

The aide stood aside as she entered the hall. 
Through the half-open door of the drawing-room 
she saw braided uniforms grouped about a table 
from which floated out the sound of laughter and 
the clink and tinkle of glasses, filled from the cel- 
lars. 

"And they tell me,” rolled a full voice, with a 
bantering chord in it, "that you would have snared 
the lot of them at Charlottesville were it not for 
a girl. Fie, Colonel! A dragoon should have a 
sterner heart ! Come now, make a clean breast of it. 
Who was the light-heeled damsel?” 

"Mistress Tillotson of Gladden Hall,” announced 
the aide at the door. 

Anne went red and white at this contretemps, 
and Tarleton sprang up with such an exclamation 
that Lord Cornwallis, who had risen also, looked 
astonishment from one to the other. Then the com- 
mander caught the situation and laughed, as did the 
whole company. 

The merriment sent resentment to Anne’s face. 


344 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


and the general sobered instantly into courteous 
contrition. Looking at her eager face, he had a 
vision of English spear-men thrusting against their 
crown at Prestonpans — of stern visored English 
Round-heads battering against king’s pikes at New- 
berry. Englishmen in all ages had been the same; 
they chose a court, but would have freedom clothe 
it as a mantle. And if the women of this land 
strove as this one, what of the men? 

“You bear easy honors. Mistress,” he said, “there- 
fore overlook our hilarity, which, I do protest, was 
yet ill-timed in the pain which the hard usage of 
such a noble mansion must bring. I regret,” he 
added, “that such things must be. War is not a 
tender game, and beauty must suffer with the rest.” 

“You mistake,” she told him quickly. “I come 
not to complain, but to ask a favor. A negro was 
taken on this property and is now held by your 
men. He has been my own body-servant all my 
life. Surely you can not lack for servants. I ask 
you now to give him back to me.” 

“It’s the nigger named John-the-Baptist, I pre- 
sume, sir,” suggested one of the officers. “Colonel 
Dundas has him.” 

Cornwallis bowed, with an easy, good-humored 
smile on his big, confident, masterful face. “We 
who enjoy the hospitality of this mansion can scarce 


IN THE TRENCHES 


315 


refuse so light a favor to her who, under happier 
circumstances, should be our hostess. You shall 
have your body-servant, Mistress.” 

“I thank your Lordship,” said Anne, with dig- 
nity. 

Seating himself, Cornwallis wrote a hasty line, 
folded the paper and handed it to her. 

“Colonel Dundas’s brigade lies with Simcoe at 
Spencer’s Ordinary, on the Williamsburg road,” he 
said. “He will give you return passes.” 

The officers rose as she swept a low curtsy from 
the threshold. The aide held her stirrup with defer- 
ence, and she cantered down through the gates and 
took the west road with a joyfully beating heart and 
the written order in the pocket of her gown. 

But she did not finish the journey. She had 
fared scarce half the way when a far popping came 
from the distance. The next hill showed puffs of 
smoke hanging above the trees, and she knew that 
the sound was the rattle of engaging musketry. 
Could her eye have pierced beneath that foliage she 
would have seen the first skirmish of Lafayette’s 
campaign — the brilliant charge of McPherson’s 
dragoons upon Simcoe’s rangers. 

She had pulled up, startled at the sound, when a 
low but familiar voice called her from the thicket 

“John-the-Baptist !” she cried. 


346 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“Yas’m, Mis’ Anne, et’s me,” he responded with 
a moist grin, parting the bushes. “I warn’ gwineter 
curry no Britisher hosses long! ’Twarn no use’n 
’em wallopin’ me — meh hide’s tougher’n whit- 
leather !” 

“They let you go?” 

He threw back his head like a baying hound and 
laughed loosely. 

“Norm! Dem squinch-eyed scoun’ls nuvver lei 
nuttin’ go. I kep’ meh eyes skunt en tuk ter de 
bresh dis ve’y mawnin’ slicker’n er weasel. Greased 
lightnin’ couldn’ ketch me! Whut yo’ doin’ heah. 
Mis’ Anne ? Whar yo’ been ?” 

“At Burwell’s.” 

“Yo’ jes’ ride lickety-cut down dar ergain. Dat’s 
de bes’ place. ’Speck Mars’ John be down dar 
’treckly. Is yo’ saw mammy ?” 

“Yes. She is safe at Westover.” 

“Bress de Lawd! Dee’s fightin’ ober dar now. 
I heahs de bullets say ‘Whar iz-z-z yo’? Whar 
iz-z-z yo’?’ Needn’ be lookin’ fo’ dis heah nigger! 
Hurry erlong. Mis’ Anne. I’s cornin’ soon’s et git 
dark.” 

For a fortnight, Burwell’s heard the grind and 
rush of the armies so near. At length this lulled; 
Cornwallis had withdrawn sullenly into York-town. 


IN THE TKENCHES 


347 


Then in early September a momentous message 
flew from lip to lip. Washington was coming I 
The wary commander-in-chief, pretending plans 
against New York, had led Sir Henry Clinton to 
recall part of his force from the Chesapeake and 
then turning front, had marched with speed for 
Virginia, where Cornwallis lay with all his army, 
in the elbow of the bay, leisurely fortifying. 

Back of this swift march of four hundred miles 
lay vital tidings. A new French fleet was on its 
way to the Chesapeake. Lafayette drew his troops 
between the British and a retreat into the Carolinas ; 
the patriot army was hastening down upon them from 
the north. Would Clinton scent danger and send 
ships to snatch Cornwallis from the closing jaws? 
Or would the French fleet come in time to block 
the sea way out ? 

But Virginia knew nothing of this at first. She 
only knew that Washington was coming. 

One night Anne was awakened to an unusual sight. 
Out on the jasper-colored river came a succession of 
huge barges and from them, above the plash of oars 
and creak of cordage, rose the hum of a multitude. 
She leaned far from the window to listen. How 
like phantom shadows the bristling floats swept past ! 
“What can it be?” she cried. 

“ *Tis the French, come in the fleet of De Grasse,” 


348 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


said Mr. Burwell. “It must now be at anchor in 
Hampton Roads. Thank God ! Thank God !” 

There was a thrill of rejoicing in his tone, but 
Anne’s heart beat painfully. Hope and help were 
come to her land — to Virginia the beautiful, the 
tragic, the tender. The first promise of this help 
had come to it when Strong Arm called to Counsel 
and Counsel to Strong Arm, and both feared to an- 
swer. And he who bore that message? Denied by 
her lips that called to him, dishonored by her hand 
that ached for a touch of him — what thought now 
had his heart for her ? 

The dark shapes passed on to the notch of James- 
town Island that night and disgorged an army. 
Silently they filed up Archer’s Hope Creek and drew, 
with Lafayette’s troops, the fatal cordon about 
iYork-town. 

The fleet that brought them lay in the river 
mouth below, and when the British ships which 
Cornwallis had been promised hove to that same 
'day with fourteen hundred guns, De Grasse’s watch- 
ful frigates battered them away. 

The would-be rescuers sailed back, and Cornwallis 
woke to find himself entrapped. 

On the day Washington’s allied armies marched 
into Williamsburg, Anne stood with Colonel Tillot- 


IN THE TEENCHES 


349 


son on the steps of the Capitol to see them pass. 
The Continentals were ragged, worn with painful 
marches in heat and rain, with stained rags covering 
old wounds, but with the unquenchable resolve in 
their faces. Eochambeau’s French were uniformed 
in white, with rose-colored facings, eager, debonair, 
carrying gold-wrought standards that caught the sun. 

Anne watched through smarting eyes. Somewhere, 
waiting these, among those other troops lying pant- 
ing against the hills nearer York-town, was the one 
face which meant the whole war — the whole world 
— to her ! 

Two red weeks followed for Williamsburg — weeks 
when the investing cannon so near vomited thunder 
unceasingly — when the sky at night was lurid with 
the flame of mortars — when wagons, black with pow- 
der and stained with cruel splotches of rusty fallow- 
brown, crawled in a never-ending caravan to the 
improvised hospital there, where Doctor Craik, Wash- 
ington’s chief surgeon, toiled sleeplessly with lint 
and knife. Many Virginia women worked with him, 
winding bandages, dressing wounds, reading to the 
sick who multiplied so rapidly in that fierce fort- 
night while the parallels of the allied forces crept 
nearer, even nearer, to the spitting ramparts of the 
beleaguered town. Among these workers was Anne. 


350 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


She read the casualty lists each day with dread, 
fearing always that one name. 

And how they labored at the front — those tat- 
tered, earnest men in their first siege, with chain- 
shot whizzing over their heads and shells bursting 
among them. Sharpening stakes, making fascines, 
gabions, hurdles, saucissons, filling sand-bags, sweat- 
ing with marl-buckets and grubbing-hoes — muddy 
as ditchers, tireless, unswerving. 

Steadily, under the enemy’s fire, batteries rose 
along the parallels. From one to another of these 
rode Knox, placing his gunners, his round, jovial 
face creased in smiles, in his element at last. And 
these gunners for five days, from sunrise to sunset, 
hurled iron and flame upon the defenses. 

The inner parallels crept toward the river-bank, 
tightening the line. Here their advance was stayed 
by a redoubt on the high bank, thirty feet above the 
river. It had resisted all the force of the gunners. 

“If we take that redoubt,” said Washington to 
Knox on the afternoon of the fifth day of the bom- 
bardment, “Cornwallis must surrender.” 

Colonel Armand, with a handful of his troopers, 
reconnoitered that afternoon on the right, near the 
river and in advance of the foremost American bat- 
tery. From the redoubts, far to the left, came a scat- 


IN THE TRENCHES 


351 


tering whistle of grape, and now and then the grind- 
ing belch of a carronade. The air was full of the 
heavy, pungent smell of burned powder and the 
reeking scent of fresh-turned earth. 

His gaze had sought the wide river for a moment 
and turned up the stream, with a look that was fixed 
and far away. 

“A prisoner, coming from the town, captured under 
the river bank, sir.” 

The voice recalled him. ‘‘Bring him here.” 

The man brought before him looked with a start, 
then smiled, with a gleam of mockery on his ruddy 
lips. Armand’s face was immovable. 

“Still the same. Colonel,” the newcomer flaunted, 
with a glance at the other’s uniform. “Still Cap- 
tain Jarrat. My Philadelphia wound, as you see, 
proved not so bad. I am on my way now out of 
the precious rat-trap yonder. I have small liking 
for these peculiar delays — suppose you scribble me 
a pass through the lines.” 

“Sergeant,” said Armand, “take this man to the 
trench and give him ten minutes to go back to his 
own redoubts.” 

A swarthy red came to J arrat’s face. “I would 
speak with you alone a moment. I have a communi- 
cation to make.” 


352 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


At Armand’s nod the others fell back. “What is 
your communication ?” he asked sternly. 

“You have covered your past very well, hut I 
know you. Do you remember that day at the Con- 
gress? Well, I am not dumb. How, will you let 
me go ?” 

For answer Armand recalled his sergeant. “Give 
this man ten lashes/’ he commanded, “before you 
start him from the trench.” 

Jarrat leaped back snarling like a fox at bay. 
“You would dare?” 

! “Aye,” said Armand slowly. “One for each stroke 
you gave the bondwoman at Gladden Hall.” 

The prisoner multiplied imprecations as they 
prepared his punishment, but took the blows in stony 
silence. Then he walked to the trench, tied a ker- 
chief about his arm and, shaking his fist with a last 
livid curse at his captor, fled toward the fortifica- 
tions. 

That evening General Moses Hazen sat in his tent, 
the 1 headquarters nearest the firing line on the right 
rear of the investing trenches, reading a closely 
written note. The handwriting, though unfamiliar 
to him, was that of Captain Jarrat. As he read 
and re-read it, lines of perplexity came into his strong 
Canadian face. 

“How was this brought ?” he asked his orderly. 


IN' THE TRENCHES 


353 


"With a despatch-flag from the eastern redoubt, 
6ir,” was the answer. 

He was still perusing it when the orderly entered 
the tent to announce Colonel Armand. The gen- 
eral swore softly, crumpled the letter in his hand, 
hesitated, then nodded assent. His eyes were sharp- 
gray, in-set, and they fixed themselves intently on 
the officer as he entered. 

"I am informed. General Hazen,” said Armand 
saluting, "that you have in charge the make-up of 
a column which will storm the enemy’s tenth re- 
doubt to-night. 5 ’ 

"Yes. 55 

"I wish to volunteer. 55 

The general’s keen eyes looked into Armand’s 
steady ones. Then he rumpled his wig in thought. 

"I accept your services,” he said at length. "Col- 
onel Alexander Hamilton will be in command. You 
will report to him at the right of the first parallel 
at dusk.” 

As the other passed out, the general smoothed 
open the letter again. "And yet . • ,” he said 
slowly to himself, "Benedict Arnold was also a brave 
man ... 55 

At dusk in the muck-black trenches lay four hun- 
dred men, compact, wide-eyed, waiting the signal for 


354 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


storming. The earth-silence was profound, and 
through it their breathing swelled like a ghostly 
tide. The hanging sky formed a whitish arch 
under which all movements seemed at a dis- 
tance vague and formless. A spattering rain was 
dropping and fitful jags of lightning knifed the low 
clouds. From the rear, an occasional mortar was 
groaning and from time to time a fiery rocket trail 
passed with a raucous shrieking overhead — a shot 
from the British batteries. 

Nearest the open lay a little group of twenty; it 
was the forlorn hope, volunteers all, who were to 
lead the column. One of these was Colonel Armand. 

As they lay waiting, somewhere on the French 
left a clear voice began to sing, low and penetrating 
between the hoarse mutterings. Another took it up, 
then another, until fifty were chanting in unison. 
It was a song which was later to be known as “Les 
Travaux du Camp” sung now in cheer for the at- 
tacking battalions : 

“Allons, travaillons, 

Travaillons, braves patriot es; 

Allons , pressons, 

Poussons vivement nos despotes 
lei trouveront leurs tombeaux* 


IN THE TRENCHES 


355 


The melody died with the explosion of a shell, 
another, then four in rapid succession. 

At the signal, the twenty rose as one man and 
hurled forward on a run. A hundred paces and a 
challenge rang out — then the parapets opened in 
spurting gusts of death. 

The handful stayed for no sappers but scaled the 
abatis, leaped the ditch and rushed upon the works 
with their spontoons. Above them, as they climbed, 
were hammering oaths, stabbing steel and leaning, 
thrusting forms. 

The first point-blank discharge had gone to waste, 
and Armand, dragging a grenadier headlong down 
by the shoulders, leaped the wall and cleared a space 
between two guns with his saber — a space filled a 
moment after by the inrush of the supporting bat- 
talion. The fight became a pandemonium of cries, 
grapples and yellow flashes. The bleeding shadows 
swelled instantly full of a vast, red smoke, of yells, 
of curses, of men trampled struggling, grunting, 
underfoot. 

Armand, lunging, turned suddenly upon a snaky 
form creeping in the shadow of the gun; when seen, 
the man pressed back into the human surge, Armand 
trailing him, panther-like. To the latter’s saber, 
he opposed a sword and used it well, but gave way 
steadily before the fury of Armand’s attack — re- 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


356 

treating across the space between the rear of the re- 
doubt and the river-bank, scarce ten yards in width 
— an acre now a melee of hand-to-hand encounters 
with sword, clubbed-mnsket and bayonet. 

“Surrender !” cried Armand. 

For answer the other avoided a thrust and twisted 
to one side, and Armand, with the rush, feeling 
loose ground crumble under his feet, realized sud- 
denly that he was on the very marge of the high 
bank. 

At the instant a new uproar arose. Through 
and over the space plunged the third detachment 
sent to attack the redoubt in reverse. 

The impact sent a soldier tumbling at Armand’s 
feet as he sprang to regain his footing, and taking 
advantage of the instant, his assailant hurled him- 
self upon him. 

As they toppled in the clinch, Armand recognized 
his foe. 

“Now, damn you • . shrieked J arrat. Then 
they fell. 

The rush had carried the position and within 
two hours, tireless Continental spades had enclosed 
it within the second parallel, a result which car- 
ried consternation to York-town, where later in the 
evening, in Cornwallis’s headquarters, — now Gov- 


IN THE TRENCHES 


357 


ernor Nelson’s mansion, since the American gunners 
had tumbled his first selection about his ears, — a 
group of aides were assembled discussing the situ- 
ation. 

With them sat Colonel Lord Chetwynde, lately 
arrived with messages from Sir Henry Clinton at 
New York. 

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance 
of Jarrat, followed by two Hessians bearing a 
stretcher. He addressed himself to Lord Chetwynde. 

“Will your Lordship pardon me if I ask a view 
of this man ?” He pointed to the unconscious form 
upon the sagging canvas. 

“I am no surgeon,” said his Lordship, languidly. 

“He needs no treatment,” Jarrat answered. 
“’Tis but a chance tumble on the head. He is a 
prisoner taken to-night.” 

“What the devil York-town wants of prisoners 
I can’t see!” drawled the other. “Colonel Dundas 
is in charge of the barrack, I believe. Why bring 
him to me ?” 

“For your identification. Colonel Dundas wishes 
certain verification. This man escaped, while under 
your sentence, from the Duchess of Gordon in sev- 
enty-six/’ 

: The other bent his eyes upon the white face on 
the stretcher, then looked at Jarrat. 


358 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“Your Lordship recognizes him ?” 

‘Yes/’ said Lord Chetwynde slowly, and turned 
away. He sat silent after Jarrat and his relay had 
departed. 

“Of what are you thinking, my Lord?” asked 
one of the younger aides. 

“I was thinking,” responded the other, lighting 
a cigarette, “of a strange snake I have heard of here 
in America. The Indians call it ‘copper-head/ It 
is said it will lie in wait for a man for months.” 

Next morning a despatch started from Cornwallis 
to Clinton: 

“Last evening , the enemy carried my advanced 
redoubt on the left ; the situation of the place 
is, therefore, so precarious that I can not recommend 
that the fleet and army should run any great risk 
in endeavoring to save us” 

And so at ten o’clock on the morning of the sev- 
enteenth of October, in the thunder of the guns, 
a red-coated drummer appeared on the left parapet 
of the invested town. He stood silhouetted against 
the dun smoke-clouds, heating a message that was 
lost in the roar. 

But with the sight the cannonading fell silent. 
The smoke lifted, the musketry barked no more. 
And then the sound came clear, as sweet as cool rain 
in a fiery desert — he was beating the long “parley.” 


IN THE TRENCHES 


359 


When the distant groanings died away in the air, 
Williamsburg came out of doors to listen and wonder 
and rejoice. There, in the afternoon, Anne met 
Henry riding into Duke of Gloucester Street with 
a deeper pain than she had ever seen in his dark face. 

“What is it? What is it? she cried. “Ah, he 
was only reported missing — missing! You are not 
going to tell me he is dead ?” 

“Be brave,” he answered. 

Then he told her as gently as he could. One of 
Cornwallis’s messengers had brought out the report 
that one Louis Armand, captured two days before, 
was under condemnation in York-town to die that 
night at sunset. 

She heard him with wide, terror-struck eyes. 

“To die!” she cried. “He was captured then. 
Let them believe what they may, he is a Continental 
officer — a prisoner of war! They can not kill him. 
Why, they are negotiating now for surrender! I 
shall go to General Washington — he will not let 
them!” 

He shook his head very gravely. 

“Anne,” he Said, “my poor, dear child ! The gen- 
eral officers of the American line know. They would 
not interfere. Jarrat’s deviltry has won at last. He 
sent a letter out of York-town three days ago to 
General Hazen, denouncing Colonel Armand.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


A PAKLEY WITH DEATH 

In little time Anne was mounted and on her way 
to the field of York-town, where the allied armies 
lay awaiting the outcome of that flag of truce. 

Joy rested over all the wide camps, but there was 
none in her heart. She was conscious only of a 
dreadful, numbing ache and a desperate necessity to 
see him once more — to tell him. She had no further 
plan. The note she carried from Henry brought 
her without delay to the officer of the day, and the 
personal request it contained was not to be denied. 

The sun was low when she passed the inner works 
and entered York-town between battered walls and 
gouged earth-mounds which testified to the fierce- 
ness of the fire rained upon the British by Ferguson’s 
and Machin’s batteries. All about her were honey- 
combed streets cluttered with rich furniture, empty 
knapsacks, books, fragments of shells, iron caltrops, 
carcasses of men and horses, and horrors beyond de - 
scription. 


< 360 . 


A PARLEY WITH DEATH 


361 


But sfie scarcely saw them. He was to die this 
night — this night — and the time was so pitifully 
short. The years he had fought must count for 
naught; all vanished before the weight of that one 
long-passed Philadelphia afternoon. What should 
have been his hour of triumph had become his hour 
of shame. And it was by her act! 

The thought made her shudder as if with an ague. 
It seemed to her that God must have been blotted 
from the heavens — that there was no hope, no good, 
nothing but a colossal Fate-wheel which was rolling 
to crush Armand and her. 

Where were the prisoners kept? She asked some 
one who directed her to a barrack at the northern 
end of the town. Thither she pushed her way over 
foul refuse heaps and fetid ditches, through crowds 
of soldiers shouting loathsome doggerel, who jeered 
and caught at her, and past gold-braided officers who 
cursed them savagely and made place. She noted 
none of these. 

At the barrack-entrance she met her first rebuff 
when a sentry barred her way. 

“You have a prisoner,” she explained, her breath 
fluttering. “His name is Armand • . I would 
see him.” 

He answered only with an uncomprehending stare. 
As he turned, she tried to pass through, but he 


362 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


thrust his musket across the door with an angry 
Hessian grunt. A knot of soldiers tossed some 
Gorman phrases to him from behind her and he 
smiled at them stolidly over her head. 

Then she became aware of a more kindly military 
face in the opening behind him. A hand touched 
the Hessian’s shoulder, he faced about, saluted and 
moved off, and the knot of stragglers melted away. 

“I am Colonel Dundas,” stated the officer in the 
door-way. “Have you permission to see the pris- 
oner ?” 

“No,” she replied pathetically. 

“This is a special order. None save the com- 
mander-in-chief can give such leave.” 

She sat down on the stone step, her eyes half- 
closed, shaken by a dry sob. Not even to see him. 
It was ghastly! 

Colonel Dundas was struck with her pallor. He 
was a gentleman and humane. “The prisoner who 
dies to-night is not under a recent condemnation, 
Mistress,” he said, not unkindly. “x4.nd ’tis said 
he now holds the rank of colonel in the American 
army. Mayhap the Continentals will yet make 
protest.” 

She looked up with wide, miserable eyes. How 
could she explain it all to him ! “There is no time 
^-no time,” she said with heavy lips. 











A PAELEY WITH DEATH 


363 


He had turned away, but her voice recalled him. 
“Where is Cornwallis’s headquarters? Tell me, 
quick.” 

“In the Nelson mansion,” he answered. “Hope 
not on that, though. Surrender is deliberated and 
the earl is under great strain.” 

“But he will at least see me?” 

He shook his head doubtfully. “You have still 
an hour.” 

Still an hour ! How horrible to measure a life 
by minutes! Colonel Dundas watched her go with 
a frown of pity. War seemed more than stern to 
him at that moment. 

Then he entered the door and sent for a chaplain 
to hold himself in readiness. 

A sickness had climbed into Anne’s throat be- 
fore she reached the house. For a time she got no 
farther than the outer door; at length an officer, 
doubtless by reason of her evident distress, gave 
her a chair in what had been the drawing-room. 
Scores of times she had sat in that self-same room, 
as gay as any guest. That she should be there now, 
on such an errand, seemed some hideous mockery 
of truth. 

The British commander had before him General 
Washington’s ultimatum as to terms of surrender 
— could see no one. So they told her, but she 


364 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


would not be satisfied. Her errand was a matter of 
life and death — concerned an execution within an 
hour. Twice the officer who had given her the 
chair went into the inner room; the second time he 
returned with a flush of mortification on his face. 

“I dare not ask again,” he told her. 

She came out into the street at last when the sun 
was gathering crimson to its fall, her whole mind 
numbed, her body wrenching with nervous agony, 
and with bruised shadows beneath her burning eyes. 
Instinctively she started in the direction of the bar- 
rack, and as she walked with uncertain footsteps, 
her fingers went twisting a slip of paper they found 
in the pocket of her gown. Some soldiers were boil- 
ing a pot over a street fire of split boards, and as she 
passed them, with the look of a sleep-walker, she 
drew the paper out and looked at it. 

Instantly a great thrill went through her to the 
tips of her fingers, and her cheeks rushed into 
flame. It was the hasty scrawl given her at Glad- 
den Hall by Lord Cornwallis the day she had gone 
to him for John-the-Baptist. 

This is what she read: 

“My Dear Dundas: I suppose we must lei ike 
lady have her prisoner . Just give them passes 
out . Cornwallis” 


A PARLEY WITH DEATH 


365 


She stood still a moment, afraid of the heating of 
her heart, cherishing a thought that was like a 
white coal in her brain. If she could! The sol- 
diers were looking at her curiously, for women were 
rare in the town. If she could ! 

Then, clasping the paper to her breast, she ran 
with winged feet toward the barrack. As she 
neared the river-bank the sun was a half-disk of 
deep orange-red. 

The Hessian sentry was still on guard. But he 
had seen his colonel’s previous greeting, and as 
she hastened up the steps he threw the door wide 
and she ran through the corridor straight into 
Dundas’s presence. He was sitting at his table, 
and a subaltern had just entered for instructions. 

“I have it! I have it!” she cried, and laughed 
— laughed joyfully with her heart quaking and 
fainting. 

“You have it? I am glad.” Dundas reached 
for the paper and read it smiling. “General Corn- 
wallis is surely occupied; he has e’en forgot to date 
it. However . . ” He struck a bell. “Ser- 
geant, tell Major Needham his file will not be re- 
quired to-night, and bring the prisoner Armand, 
fully clothed, to me.” 

She scarce heard what followed save to realize in 
a vague way that he was marveling at her miracle. 


366 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


But everything else vanished as Armand entered 
the room. 

"Prisoner/’ Colonel Dundas announced, "I am 
ordered to set you at liberty. You owe so much 
clemency to this lady who has interceded with Lord 
Cornwallis.” 

Armand had been pale when he entered; having 
seen her, his face had grown quite colorless. He 
stood wordless, his shoulders lifting in a long, deep- 
drawn breath. 

"Here is a double pass,” continued Dundas. 
"That, I believe, ends my hospitality.” He rose 
and bowed while the sergeant opened the door and 
the two passed out into the noisome, brawling 
street. 

The sun had set — the sky’s golden ivory still moist 
for the first stroke of night’s soft brush to paint 
in the stars. A thin new moon tilted over the 
musty purple of the river. Reaction was come. 
She shivered again and put out a hand toward 
him. 

"Speak to me,” she whispered. 

"Rather,” he said, "tell me at what house I can 
safely leave you.” 

"Leave me?” 

"Aye. You have made me take my life at your 
hand. Spare me further humiliation if you can.” 


A PAELEY WITH DEATH 


367 


She had not thought of this emergency. Delay 
would spoil all. And even if he reached the Ameri- 
can lines — ah! none knew better than she why he 
should not go there. 

“I am in danger,” she invented breathlessly. 
“In great danger — I can not explain now — here in 
York-town. I have not a friend within the walls, 
no spot where I can be safe. I ask you to take me 
away.” 

“Let us go, then, toward the bastions,” he said 
turning. 

“No, no!” She caught at his arm. “I can not 
go into the American camp. Bethink you, ’tis 
night. I must get to Gladden Hall. See — here is 
the river. ’Tis but a few miles. Could you row 
me so far, think you, against the current?” 

He did not reply, but led the way to a path 
which zigzagged down the bluff to the river. It was 
the spot where they had first met. Then the long 
stretch had bristled with shipping; now the wharves 
had been pulled up to build rat-rotted lean-to’s, the 
bank was hollowed with dug-out shelters from the 
shells, wherein wounded soldiers played at cards 
by new-lit candles, and the water’s edge was a jum- 
ble of ownerless barges and periaugers, and a tohu- 
bohu of shouts and wranglings. Along the line of 
craft, where the tide scum shuddered in with spran- 


368 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


gles of sea-weed and chunks of wreckage, sentries 
patrolled ceaselessly with keen outlook for river 
deserters. 

Armand chose a narrow skiff, found two oars 
for it, and placed her in the stern as a lieutenant 
examined their pass. Then, with a strong shove, 
he sent the boat darting out on to the broad, smooth, 
unrippling current. 

It had scarce drawn well away when a figure blun- 
dered down the bank. 

“Call that boat in!” he Cried, “or have the sen- 
tries fire on it. That man’s name is Armand; he 
is an escaping prisoner.” 

“Oh, no, Captain Jarrat,” returned the lieu- 
tenant composedly. “You have the name all right, 
but he had a pass signed by Lieutenant-ColO'nel 
Dundas. I know the signature well enough. This 
siege routine is playing the devil with your nerves, 
Captain.” 

“A pass!” shouted Jarrat frantically. “By the 
ghost !” and went up the bank on a run. 

Colonel Dundas was gone from the barrack, and 
Jarrat could no more get speech with Cornwallis 
than could Anne a half-hour before. But the con- 
ference at headquarters ended while Jarrat waited, 
and the earl came out in no pretty humor. As 
luck would have it. Colonel Dundas was with him. 


A PARLEY WITH DEATH 


369 ! 


There followed an interesting scene, which left 
Lord Cornwallis in nastier mood than ever. 

“She fooled Tarleton once,” he swore. “How 
’tis you, Dundas. From under your very nose, too, 
by the Lord!” 

And Dundas, perspiring, wholly astonished, has- 
tened to order a long-boat in pursuit of the skiff, 
on the hare chance of overhauling the fugitives be- 
fore they reached the American front. 

Jarrat, however, made a different calculation. 

His cobra hate, inflamed by the sight of Anne in 
the boat, leaped to a rapid conclusion. She had 
discovered that Armand had been exposed; they had 
taken the river way — the only way to avoid the 
Americans. So he argued. And whither did they 
fly? Where else than to Gladden Hall, now desert- 
ed, where she thought to conceal him till the hue 
and cry passed — where she may have hidden horses. 
The long-boat would probably be halted by the shore 
pickets — the skiff might slip through. 

Two hours after this ratiocination Jarrat was 
caught and held on the right skirt of the besieging 
army as a deserter from the town and forthwith he 
demanded to be taken to General Hazen’s headquar- 
ters. 

There the general, seated in his tent, had just 
penned the last page of a letter: 


570 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“ On the lV k y they had another Drobing. 

“To-day, 17 th , L a Cornwallis sent a flag request- 
ing a cessa n of arms & 2 Commiss nr8 to form a 
Capitulation for the Army & the surrender of the 
shiping & posts of York & Gloster. Tims has the 
Earl been hro 1 to anchor in the height of his career. 
My next shall be more particular, in the meantime 
be assur d of the Sincerity of y r real friend and 
Ob dt Humble Serv 1 ” 

He was shaking the sand-box over the still wet 
signature when the captive was brought in. 

“Three days ago/' Jarrat begaij* “I had the 
honor to send to you a letter from the town in 
regard to a certain Continental officer.” 

The general sent the others out of hearing and 
bent his gray-black brows. “I have to-day heard 
of his condemnation,” he said. “He is dead then. 
He has atoned. So far as I am concerned, his past 
shall be buried with him.” 

“But if,” Jarrat continued — “if I should tell 
you that he is not dead; that the report of his con- 
demnation was a trick; that he was not captured in 
the first place, but used the night attack to penetrate 
within York-town without exciting suspicion, and so 
carry to Cornwallis full plans of the American 
works . ♦ • ” 


A PARLEY WITH DEATH 


371 


“Your proof of this?” asked Hazen, his teeth 
set like a vise. 

“The proof is that this very night he has been 
smuggled out beyond the Continental lines, and 
lies at this moment in hiding in a house a half- 
dozen miles from here, waiting escape.” 

“Where is the house?” thundered the other. 

Jarrat’s lean lips smiled. “Pardon me if I make 
terms. In return for my freedom I will guide a 
detachment to his burrow.” 

“An this be true . . ” said Hazen. He hesi- 
tated, but only for a moment. Then he called a 
sharp direction to his orderly. 

“I must see General Lafayette,” he said to Jar- 
rat. “The cavalry legion is no part of my brigade. 
Colonel Armand was under division orders only.” 

But the marquis was making a tour of the works 
with the commander-in-chief and could not be 
found. 

“It must not wait,” fumed Jarrat. “He will be 
off.” 

General Hazen sat down and wrote a hurried or- 
der. “An he is not there, why, ’twill be merely 
a ride for naught,” he mused. “An he is, there 
will be small question.” 

“Major Woodson,” he said, as a staff-officer ap- 
peared, “take a relay of a dozen men immediately. 


372 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


and go to the house this prisoner will show you. 
Should you find there Colonel Armand, of the 
cavalry legion, arrest him.” 

“An he resists ...” said Jarrat. 

“The usual orders,” the general answered. “Go !” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


BEHIND THE B AR RICADE 

As the skiff slipped out from the confusion of 
the town-edge, the moon, lifted like a paper sickle, 
silvered all the misty distance. A mile away, 
across the broad expanse, Anne saw the twinkling 
lights of Gloucester, and to her left, the camp- 
fires under the river-bank slipping slowly back. 
But the current was steady and their progress nec- 
essarily slow. Ahead loomed the massive star- 
shaped Fusileer’s Redoubt, with the British frigate 
Guadaloupe moored some way outside, and, pass- 
ing, she clenched her hands till the nails struck 
purple crescents in her palms in a dumb terror of 
pursuit or alarm. 

They were scarce come opposite this when a shot, 
a shout and a sound of oars tumbled upon thwarts 
came clearly over the water behind them. 

“They have found it out,” she cried. “Row 
hard! Oh, would that I could help you!” 

“Found out what?” 

“I must tell you the truth. I have procured 
373 


374 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


your escape by a trick. *Twas not a true release 
iwhich I brought to the barrack. *Twas false; they 
are like to discover it at any moment and pursue 
us.” 

He stopped rowing. “You did that — for me? 
You spoke falsely when you said you were in ter- 
rible danger?” 

“Row,” she pleaded, leaning forward from the 
stern. “Stop not an instant. I have fooled Corn- 
wallis. Think you he will forget that? Or, if 
they take us, that I shall go scot-free? Would you 
see me in a cell?” 

The boat shot forward with a jerk that made 
her catch her breath. 

“Where are you heading?” she asked presently, 
for he had turned in shore. 

“The French battery is just ahead. *Tis the 
extreme left of the circling Continental front. Be- 
yond that is safety, Mademoiselle.” 

“I will not land there. You must pass the 
American lines. You must take me home to Glad- 
den Hall.” 

“But . . ” 

“Row, row!” 

“I beg you to allow us to land,” he urged. “The 
regiment of the Gatinais lies behind that bluff; 
they will not dare pursue into the French trenches.” 


BEHIND THE BARRICADE 


375 


“An you are afraid — ■” 

Oh, what it cost her heart to say that ! 

Armand bent to the oars and increased his 
speed. Neither spoke. She was suffering a like 
apprehension now of arousing the American pickets 
on the shore. At any other time, doubtless, there 
would have been challenges, but on this night, the 
first of many weeks, the Continentals rested and 
made merry, waiting the signing of the articles of 
surrender. The skiff passed the danger point and 
for a while there was no sound save the slap of tiny 
waves like children’s hands against the stem, and 
the muffled din of the pursuit, which drew on with 
dogged persistency. 

“They will not fire,” she said at length, in a 
low voice, “for fear of arousing the Americans. 
They have a ship’s-boat full, but they row crooked 
and uneven. Yet they come on fast — fast. Tell 
me — could we get back to the Continental works?” 

“’Tis impossible now; they are between us and 
them. Gladden Hall is the nearest refuge.” 

“Are you certain?” 

“Yes, Mademoiselle.” 

“Listen,” she confessed then; “I have deceived 
you. I made you take me past the Continental line 
because . . . because you yourself can not go 

there. You must not go there. ’Tis not only the 


376 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


British who would seize you now. Ah, do you not 
understand? You have been denounced. ? Tis 
known that you are the same who, they think, would 
have misled the Congress.” 

“Informed against?” he said. “Again?” 

“Oh, what a ghastly thing for you to say to me! 
’Twas Jarrat — Jarrat. Row ashore, and — fly.” 

“Where ?” 

“Anywhere, anywhere,” she cried, wildly, “only 
so it be to safety! Haste! They gain on us.” 

“If we land they are certain to take us. You can 
not go afoot as fast as they.” 

“I shall not go — you shall leave me there. Row ! 
Row!” 

“And why should you care for my life ?” 

“Ah, will you stay when my heart is breaking? 
There is no time to talk now. What is anything 
they may do beside your life? I beseech you . . 
I command you to run in. I never intended you 
to take me farther.” 

“You would be safe if we could reach Gladden 
Hall,” he said. Then he stood up and threw off 
his coat. 

Her tears came at this. “There is no one at the 
Hall to protect,” she wept. “Not a slave to beat 
them back. Not a weapon. Tarleton sacked it. 


BEHIND THE BARRICADE* 


377 


AH, you do not believe me, because I deceived you 
before! But this is the truth — I swear it is the 
truth !” 

He made no answer, but set the boat’s bow 
straight up the stream and rowed as she had never 
seen a man row before. She felt the timbers 
shiver and creak, heard the deep in-take of his 
breath and saw the splendid play of the arm mus- 
cles beneath his shirt-sleeve. Then, entering, ever 
more insistent, came the creak of the pursuing 
craft. 

The moonlight fell whitely on the shore they 
skirted. Two miles — three miles — past the shal- 
lows of King’s Creek and Corbin’s point. Every 
tongue of land, every wedge of forest, how well 
she knew them ! But how slowly they fell behind ! 
There was no longer danger of arousing the Con- 
tinental pickets, and the pursuers’ voices came 
clearly, gibing at the error of their prisoner which 
had carried him past the line of safety and made 
his taking certain. Once Anne heard the officer 
who led give sharp command to put down a gun. 

A scant hundred yards was all there was between 
the two boats when Armand sprang upon the wharf 
of Gladden Hall. “Leave me !” she begged faintly, 
“and save yourself. You have yet time.” 


378 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“Give me your hand/’ lie commanded peremp- 
torily. He took it and led her running up the 
sloping lawn. 

Its unkempt forlornness was softened by the 
kindly moonlight, and not until they reached the 
front of the house did its gray desolateness become 
all at once apparent. The panes in the windows 
were broken, the white pillars battered, the front 
door swinging, the yard unsightly with rubbish. 

“ ? Tis deserted!” Despair was in his tone. 

“I told you that.” 

“Are there no horses?” 

“The barns are burned. Leave me, leave me, 
and go!” 

He hurried her to the front door and they en- 
tered, hearing as they did so the larger boat bump 
the planking. Without a word, he shot home the 
bolts in the great door, and drew her into the din- 
ing-room, now over-scattered with broken crockery. 
He locked both doors of this room, smashed the 
sashes of the porch windows with a chair, brought 
together the heavy outer blinds and slid the bars. 
As he fastened the second, the pursuers came tum- 
bling to the porch. Anne, meantime, taking a 
clue from him, had managed to fasten one of the 
windows in the opposite side. He sprang to secure 


i 


BEHIND THE BARRICADE 


379 


the other before the soldiers reached the back of 
the house. 

This shut out the last of the moonlight and the 
room became a blank darkness. Outside was a 
deadened clamor, curses and shouts to fetch ship’s 
lanterns and search the empty quarters for an ax. 
Anne could hear Armand’s convulsive breathing. 

She had groped her way to the sideboard and 
opened its candle drawer. A tiny half-inch end 
rewarded her. Flint and steel still hung in their 
accustomed place; she struck them and lighted the 
wick with trembling hands. 

As she did so, a heavy body came hurtling against 
the other side of the inner door. “Better give up, 
you weasel,” panted a voice. 

Armand answered loudly: “If I do, will you 
promise to let the lady go?” 

“No, no,” Anne besought in an agony. “You 
shall not give yourself up to them! They would 
not hold to such a promise.” 

With her cry, however, whirled a scramble of 
curses. “We’ll lay you by the heels and take the 
girl back, too, damn you!” and a rain of blows 
descended on the door, while a crash against one of 
the blinds shook the wall. 

Leaping back, Armand dragged out the heavy 


880 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


mahogany sideboard, now slashed and dinted, and 
set it against one door. The other he reinforced 
with the overturned table, and bound this to its 
place with the twisted window-curtains. Last, he 
wrenched an iron from the fireplace and stood wait- 
ing. At the same moment the candle-end col- 
lapsed, the wick dropped, flickered and went out, 
and darkness fell around them again. 

A lull had come in the attack; evidently a con- 
sultation was being held. The blackness seemed 
to lie upon Anne’s soul like a heavy weight, and 
Armand’s silence became unbearable. 

“What shall we do?” she asked dully. “We can 
not hold out for long.” 

But there was no reply. 

“I — I am so frightened,” she said piteously. 
“ ’Tis dark ! Come to me, Louis.” 

She listened, but he made no stir. 

“You will not come to me . . will not pity, 
or comfort me?” she entreated through the void. 
“Yet to-night I tried to save your life.” 

“For what end? You who took from it all that 
makes life sweet! I trusted you!” She shrank 
at the ring of scorn in his voice. “I trusted you!” 

“And I you,” she answered. “I loved and hoped 
and trusted, too. After they took you from here 
that evening, every night, when I went to bed I 


BEHIND THE BARRICADE 


381 


said a prayer and kissed my poor hand to yon in the 
dark. And I have done so every night since then 
— every night, Louis.” 

Something like a sob sounded in the room and 
she stretched out her arms toward it. 

“I tried to keep my promise. You remember 
when they lashed the bondwoman? She woke 
with a crazed brain, and the packet . . your 
packet . . was gone. All those months I 
searched and found it at last by chance. I did 
not get to Philadelphia with it till — that morning.” 

There was no further answer and she slipped on 
her knees, feeling a yearning that was like a 
poignant sickness. 

“You must hear,” she went on pleadingly, clasp- 
ing her fingers, “and believe me, or my heart will 
break. Fate put me in the recess of the window 
at the Red Lion Tavern, Louis. I saw Jarrat give 
you the forged message . . . saw you fight 
and run him through. I knew you were true — 
true to your master's honor and your own.” 

“You accused me !” The words stung her. “Ac- 
cused me to the Continentals!” 

“Listen. Listen to me!” she prayed desperately. 
“I must tell you it all now . . . now at the end. 
Jarrat showed me the paper — the contract that 
bound you to give your life — your life! And I 


382 


•HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


knew you would do it! Oh, what that meant! T 
would have given my own life a hundred times to 
prevent it. Can you think what it cost me to 
stand in that room and say that . . . that, of 

you? Your face was dreadful! I thought I 
should die when you looked at me!” 

“So, you killed my honor!” 

“No, no! Not that — I did not mean that, 
Louis ! I had such little time to think — 
such small time to reason. I had only time to 
feel — to feel as a woman will, and to act. I 
had to defeat the contract to keep you from going 
back to the prison — to death. I thought I could 
clear you at the last, I who knew you were 
true, because I had the packet — the true message. 
Only I promised my soul that I should not speak 
within the month.” 

Her voice broke a little here, then went on in 
a sudden pathos of pleading: “What know we 
women of soldier’s duty or soldier’s honor — we 
who are cherished and toasted all our lives? We 
know only to love, to follow — and— and — to save 
what we love, in spite of all the world !” 

There was a movement now — a step. 

“Then I took the packet, Louis, into the Con- 
gress to Doctor Eranklin that very hour, and I 
could not tell you what I had done . . . and 


BEHIND THE BARRICADE 


383 


you escaped them. I thought you had gone to 
your death. And you didn’t know! You never 
knew. Oh ,” she sobbed, "if you would only for- 
give me, only touch me, only lay your hand on my 
head — ” 

She heard a stumble, a smothered cry. The 
iron bar clanged against the floor. An arm, grop- 
ing, trembling, touched her wet cheek. 

"My God! And I doubted you!” Armancrs 
voice thrilled her in a great burst of grief-wound 
joy. "You gave the message? My darling — my 
darling !” 

She felt herself caught up in his arms in the 
dark, shuddering, crying, panting incoherent 
phrases, kissing his face, his rough coat, his epaul- 
lets, strangling with fierce terror and ecstasy of 
love, and feeling his passion strain and fold her. 
It seemed to her that all of life and death was 
concentrated in that one embrace — that nothing 
existed in the world but the delirium of that single 
sweet-bitter moment. 

A medley of shouts and ax-blows on both of 
the doors at one time sent her into quick spasms 
of dread. A panel splintered; a shaft of light and 
an arm thrust in. Armand released her, struck 
once with the iron bar, and the man fell back 
cursing with a broken arm. 


384 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“Shoot!” one shouted. “Are we to be bayed by 
this rat?” 

“Don’t fire,” came the response. The order was 
imperative. 

The blows began again. Another panel crashed 
and the holes let in more light. It fell npon Anne’s 
pallid lips and showed her Armand’s white sleeves 
and pale face, set, but calm. A blow struck the 
lock of the other door; it yielded and the oak swung 
in against the stout sideboard. 

Anne felt her limbs grow cold. 

“Lost, lost!” she murmured, and leaned dumbly 
against the wainscoting. 

Suddenly a fusillade of musketry woke the 
echoes out of doors and a crisp shout garnished it. 
“File out of that hall, and lay down arms.” 

There arose a Saturnalia of revilement from the 
hall ; then as it died, the voice asked : “What mean 
these active hostilities in a period of armistice?” 

“’Tis a sortie for an escaped prisoner!” came 
the jarring mirth of Jarrat. “Well, Major, I think 
you will have need yourself for all the prisoners 
to be found here.” 

Anne had gone from one terror to another and 
bitterer one. “The Continentals!” she moaned. 

The crisp voice approached the splintered door. 
“Colonel Armand,” it said, “I arrest you in the 


BEHIND THE BARRICADE 


385 


name of the United States of America. Do you 
surrender ?” 

“By whose orders?” 

“The general’s commanding the Second Brigade.” 

“I am a colonel of independent cavalry,” an- 
swered Armand clearly. “I acknowledge orders 
only from the division commander.” 

Jarrat laughed. 

Sharp directions followed. The axes cut wider 
fissures in the panels, and through these muskets 
obtruded and took aim. “My orders are to take 
you alive, to shoot if you resist. I give you five 
minutes to open that door.” 

Anne ran to Armand and threw herself into his 
arms. “Ah, you must not! For God’s sake, give 
yourself up ! I will tell it all to General Wash- 
ington. He will hear and believe me • . I 
will . . ” 

“Think you it would be credited?” he asked 
gently. “And if not . . ” 

She clung to him, weeping. “But you have 
fought so. There is that ! Oh, ’twill give me your 
life — your life. That is all I want! I care not 
for shame or report, so I know it is not true ! Ah, 
pity me! And ’tis my fault! Oh, this must be 
a hideous dream come to punish me!” 


386 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


"I used to dream,” lie said, “of you and me as 
wed • . in honor.” 

“Oh, I would wed you in dishonor, in disgrace, 
in death! See,” she said hurriedly, ‘‘here is my 
mother’s wedding-ring. I have always worn it 
about my neck. I love you! I love you!” She 
laid it in his hand. 

“Put it upon my finger,” she whispered. “Say 
it after me: ‘I, Anne, take thee, Louis, to my 
wedded husband . . . * 99 

A strange fire had come into his face. 

“‘I, Louis,” he repeated solemnly, “‘take thee, 
Anne, to my wedded wife . . . 9 ” 

“‘To have and to hold, from this day forward, 
for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sick- 
ness and in health . . . 999 

‘“To have and to hold, from this day forward, 
for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sick- 
ness and in health . . . 999 

She was sobbing now so that she could scarcely 
frame the words: 

“‘To love and to cherish — till death us do — 9 
join , Louis ! It can not, it shall not part us !” 

“My own love !” he said in choked tones, and held 
her quivering against his breast. 

“The time is up,” said the voice. 

Anne clasped Armand with her young arms— 


BEHIND THE BARRICADE 


387 


tightly, desperately, as if her warm, yielding body, 
her face fragrant with white fragrance, conld keep 
back the death that looked from those mnzzles. 

His hands disengaged her own to pin to his coat 
a yellow bauble he had taken from his pocket, and 
then, as she clung, her strained senses became con- 
scious of a wheeling plunge of horsemen at the 
porch, hurried steps, a voice shaking with a strange 
vibration, asking questions in broken English. 

At the sound, Armand threw back his head and 
stood like a stone image. 

There was a pause. Then — » 

“Louis Armand,” said the sibilant, halting 
tongue, “I command you to open thees door! You 
will not, eh? You know who I am?” 

The sideboard fell with a crash, the splintered 
door tumbled upon it, and Armand stood to atten- 
tion in the blaze of lantern light. At a glance 
Anne knew the officer who stood in the doorway, 
surrounded by a glittering staff. He was the Major- 
General commanding the division. 

“You surrendair, then? Good! An’ where, 
Major Woodson, is the informair who has done 
such brilliant sairvice to denounce — eh ? Come 
stan’ beside me, M’sieu Jarrat, an’ let us overwhelm 
thees villain!” 


388 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


He advanced a step into the room, his eyes bright 
on the pair. 

“Ha! An’ yon theenk I have never recognize’ 
yon, Charles, all thees time, — me who was yonr old 
brother in the College du Plessis! Me — Lafayette? 
Take off that wig! Take it off, I tell yon!” 

Mechanically, Armand pnt his hand to his head. 
He drew off the black pernke and, all at once nn~ 
confined, his brown, cnrling hair fell to his shoul- 
ders, the ends just touching the yellow Cross of St. 
Louis, which sparkled like a topaz on his breast. 
The act transformed him. The set mouth was gone, 
the face all softened to youthfulness. 

“Louis Armand, the impostor, seized at Williams- 
burg!” shouted Jarrat. “Armand who escaped the 
clutches of the Congress! Armand the traitor, 
gentlemen. Tear off his cross!” 

One of the circle about Lafayette turned facing 
him with an oath, but the general was before him. 

“Ho!” he cried. “Ho! Hot Louis Armand the 
traitor! But Charles Louis Armand, Colonel of 
Armand’s Legion and Marquis de la Trouerie !” 

There was an instant of silence that turned a 
Babel behind the speaker. 

“A lie!” shouted Jarrat. “A lie. The Marquis 
de la Trouerie is dead !” Anne had risen trembling, 
speechless, her eyes fixed and glittering. 


BEHIND THE BARRICADE 


389 


"Aye/’ said Armand sternly, stretching his arm 
toward him. “He has been dead these five years. 
But he did not die when you supposed — that was 
but a play necessary to deceive a dog one would not 
wish barking at his heels. He called himself a 
secretary, and you — you jackal — you thought to 
buy him, a Frenchman, to betray his master, his 
king, and these Colonies !” 

Lafayette laughed like a child. “He bribe’ 
him to be — what you theenk, gentlemen? — to be 
himself! A rare pleasantree, eh? And the Con- 
gress, they theenk he trick them in seventee-six. 
They would arres’ him yet, when he is denounce’ 
— even my General Hazen!” 

Jarrat had fallen back, his face black, his fingers 
convulsively working, his teeth gritting one on an- 
other like pebbles in the hand. 

Armand’s eyes were upon Anne, though he seemed 
to address all present. 

“The marquis had a mission, and he found it 
to his purpose to — to become himself. He found 
many thorns in his way. But he found one 
rose — one rose so pure and fragrant that he 
wished to gather it. He found a lady — a lady 
of Virginia, who loved him and believed in him. 
The marquis was living then. He found himself 


390 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


in peril and he trusted her. And at last 0 - n 
he thought she had betrayed him/ 5, 

“Ah, my friend/’ cried Lafayette wistfully, 
“these long months seeing you, and I have never 
told you I knew you — never asked wherefore you 
hid yourself from all. Was I not a friend, 
Charles ?” 

“Then,” Armand continued, “God forgive his un- 
belief ! then was when he died !” 

A great lovely light had come to Anne’s face and 
smiled from her colorless lips — a light more lovely 
than the aurora over snows. 

“Is it true?” she faltered, looking at him in a 
sort of unbelieving wonder. “Is it true? And 
will he live again?” 

Eor answer he knelt down at her feet and put his 
lips to her hand. She felt tears upon it. 

When they looked up they were alone in the 
room. From the yard came the rattle of bridle- 
chains and the bustle of mounting. Lafayette met 
them on the threshold. 

“I have search’ all the place for a — what you 
call it? — side-saddle,” he laughed, “an’ there ees 
one at las’. Colonel, Ma’amselle, you shall ride to 
town wit’ me. We shall all be jus’ like big chil- 
dren to-night! Ah, I have forget — you did not 
know that only two, t’ree hour ago, Cornwallis has 
surrendair to the Americans!” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE PASSING OF THE OLD KEGIMB 

The last day has come. The trenches are si- 
lent. The cannon have done groaning, the snarl- 
ing small-arms rattle no more. York-town lies as 
if numbed. The Hampton road, leading out from 
the British works, is lined with masses of men — 
the allied troops. They make a great silent hol- 
low way stretching out, a mile long, to the field 
of surrender. 

The left wall of this empty lane is the French 
troops; to the right are the American. At the 
head of their respective staffs, the commanding 
generals sit their horses — Washington, Rochambeau, 
Lafayette, Steuben and the rest. They are grave 
and quiet. 

Hark! A drum, the blare of a regiment band, 
and out from those frowning embankments, into 
the living lane, comes a gay cavalcade. It might 
be a holiday parade, for they march as proudly 
891 


392 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


as they had marched victorious into Charles-town. 
But they have no colors flying. 

“This is a harsh article,” objected one of the 
British commissioners, when the surrender was 
arranged. 

“Which article?” inquired Colonel Laurens. 

“ ‘The troops shall march out with colors cased.’ ” 

How the noble Earl of Cornwallis had been a 
keeper of the Tower of London, in which Tower, 
at that moment, Colonel Laurens’s own father, the 
first United States Ambassador to Holland, cap- 
tured on his voyage, lay on a diet of bread and 
water. The colonel, too, had been made a pris- 
oner at Charles-town with Lincoln’s army. He 
reminded the Briton that the Americans on that 
occasion had made a brave defense, but were al- 
lowed no honors save to march out with colors 
cased. “This remains an article,” he added, “or 
I cease to be a commissioner.” 

A poetic retaliation! 

And what is the tune these troops are now 
marching to? It is “The World Turned Upside 
Down.” 

Leading them rides General O’Hara, heavy and 
stolid. He carries the sword of Cornwallis, who 
is lying in his tent sick with mortification. In 


PASSING OF THE OLD REGIME 393 


solid formation behind him come the elite of the 
king’s army in America. They make a brave show, 
these eight thousand men in their new red uni- 
forms, distributed this very morning, but there are 
sad hearts in the lines. 

They gaze curiously at the men who have hum- 
bled them, drawn up on the right of the way. 
These are war-worn, dressed in make-shift uniform 
or no uniform at all, standing with the militia be- 
hind them, their faces tanned with exposure, lean 
from hardship — ah, but standing like soldiers and 
like conquerors! 

No less eagerly do they gaze at the French troops 
opposite, immaculate in white uniforms, their 
officers plumed and decorated, their great stand- 
ards of white silk with golden fleur-de-lis flaunting 
all along their front. There is St. Simon, small 
and dark from the sun of the West Indies, Ad- 
miral Count de Grasse, thick-set with a double 
chin and wig with two rows of curls, and Rocham- 
beau with pearl-buttons and ruffles of silk and lace, 
that fall below his finger-tips; and there, too, be- 
side Lauzun, at the head of his cavalry remnant, 
sits Armand, no longer the grave, impassive figure 
of the Virginia campaign, but with a face in which 
a new light and youth has coma. 


394 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


In the field a squadron of hnssars has formed a 
circle, and into this circle each British regiment 
marches and halts. 

“Present arms ! Lay down arms ! Put off 
swords and cartridge-boxes!” Yon Seybothen, 
colonel of the Beyrenthian regiment, gives these 
commands, his cheeks wet with tears. Simple 
enough words, but how much lies behind them ! 

The lines form again. Back they move along 
the same path. Following, the troops that have 
lined the way merge into a great wave which flows 
after, enters between the entrenchments and spreads 
itself in ripples over the town. The long siege is 
over; York-town is in the hands of the Americans. 

An end now to the scanty fare, the fever-full 
hospitals. The caves dug into the river bank are 
emptied, the congestion of tents is broken. The 
entering army brings medicines and the rejoicing 
Virginians pour provisions into the town. A few 
days of welcome rest await the captured rank and 
file — then they are to march off, guarded by militia, 
to the prison camps at Winchester. Meanwhile, in 
those houses, whose stout walls are pierced and 
battered with shells, the French and American 
commanders vie with one another in dining the 
courtly officers they have taken. 

Once more gay feminine furbelows flit along the 


PASSING OP THE OLD REGIME 395 


streets — the patriot ladies of Williamsburg press 
into service the few mounts they have kept hidden 
from the raiding bands of Tarleton and Simcoe and 
ride a-horseback to exclaim at the havoc, to be 
bowed to by the handsome young British officers 
now on parole, and to grace the toasts of the 
sprightly banquets. 

Camp entertainments are to be the fashion. 
Washington opens with a dinner of ceremony to 
General Earl Cornwallis — a wondrous glittering af- 
fair of many courses from which the British com- 
mander-in-chief goes away with a new and glowing 
sense of the generosity of his captors. 

The second evening there is a quieter gathering in 
the great drawing-room of Governor Nelson’s man- 
sion, wherein, three days before, Anne had pleaded 
vainly for speech with Cornwallis. And here be- 
neath a jagged hole, draped now with Virginia 
creeper, where had crashed the first shot from Fer- 
guson’s battery, fired by General Washington him- 
self — standing with motherly Mrs. Nelson and with 
Colonel Tillotson on one hand and Patrick Henry 
and his pretty, gypsy-dark wife on the other, the 
Reverend Mr. Evans, the commander’s own chap- 
lain, repeats the simple English service which makes 
the Marquis de la Trouerie and Anne Tillotson 
man and wife. And who but Marie-Paul- Joseph de 


396 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, kisses the cKeek fcf 
the bride? 

Passing the self-same mansion that evening, Colo- 
nel Tarleton, in company with several French offi- 
cers with whom he had dined, found the superb 
horse he rode become all at once unmanageable. 
The animal reared, whinnied, and at last made for, 
the doorway, where Anne, with a glad cry of “Oh, — ’ 
Mohammed !” threw her arms about his neck. 

The rider sawed at the stubborn mouth angrily, 
but the girl grasped the rein peremptorily. 

“This is my horse,” she said firmly. 

‘‘Better give him up, Tarleton,” said General 
O’Hara, who was one of the waiting party, and with 
no good grace, the trooper dismounted and went 
away afoot. 

There followed three perfect days — days, when the 
air was soft as silk, when a fair sky of tender 
October blue hung above the grim, clotted fields 
and bent bow-like to the purple calm of distance — 
days when they left the flush roistering of Williams- 
burg far behind them and walked in gold silences, 
dimly broke by the strong rush of the river. 

Into this unendurable joy came a wave of pain — 
the news that Baron Fairfax lay at Greenway Court, 
stricken down by illness. 


PASSING OF THE OLD REGIME 397 


Henry brought the tidings the fourth morning, 
and at noon of the next day Anne and Armand 
started by chariot for Alexandria. 

Along the way they went, had gone, like a conta- 
gion, the out-flame of rejoicing. Alexandria’s ship- 
ping was a-flutter with flags. And these Anne saw 
through tears for the old heart which lay far back 
from sounds of joy, in its mountain hermitage. All 
those years it had gone without the love that fate 
had given to her. It had had, as treasure, a loyalty 
that never faltered, a steadfast allegiance that never 
wavered, and a lingering, longing love for one who 
had broken his king’s sword and chosen to tread 
paths that, to the old order, led through treason and 
dishonor. 

Afternoon had fallen in a booming drizzle when 
they passed Ashby’s Gap, and it was dull twilight 
before they saw the dark jutting chimneys of Green- 
way Court between the soaked fringes of the trees, 
and the chariot toiled up the steep ascent from the 
Shennando. 

At the edge of the clearing whose piny skirts 
were now shrouded in a silver-dull fog of rain, 
Armand lifted Anne from the chariot. Joe, grown 
older and lichen-gray, was hobbling from the door. 

“How is he, Joe?” she asked quickly. “Is 


he 


398 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“De good Lawd sut’n’y sent yo’, Mis’ Anne! 
Mars’ Torm been axin’ fo’ yo’ all de time, en, bress 
Gord ! heah yo’ is ! He ain’ gwine las’ much longer. 
Ain’ gwine las’ much longer. Mis’ Anne!” 

He leaned close to her as they crossed to the steps 
and confided anxiously : 

“Yo’ do’n know nuttin good fum Mars’ Washing- 
ton, does yo’, honey? ’Cause he been ’quirin’ ’bout 
dat boy tell et mos’ broke meh ole heart !” 

Anne shook her head helplessly. “Yo, Joe.” 

“He ain’ done nuttin more bad ter hurt Eerginia ? 
Tell Mars’ Torm dat. Mis’ Anne. Tell Mars’ 
Torm !” 

Together they went into the lodge, where, on the 
self-same couch on which she had seen Armana 
lying wounded, lay the old baron. His great frame 
was wasted, and under the edges of his wig at the 
temples glistened a strand of hair snow-white. 

Upon the table, set on edge where his eyes could 
see them, were two sealed letters. Anne wondered 
why they had not been opened. She did not know 
that the superscription was in the hand of General 
Washington. 

A drop glistened on Joe’s rugged cheek as he stood 
looking silently at the master he had cared for so 
long. My Lord stirred and murmured and by some 


PASSING OF THE OLD REGIME 399 


trick of dulled senses spoke again the question the 
faithful servant had so often answered: 

“Almost there, J oe ?” 

A sob came from Joe’s throat “Atmos’ dar, 
Mars’ Torm!” 

My Lord opened his eyes all at once and saw her, 
and to her surprise he spoke quite naturally and 
gladly. 

“I have longed for you, my dear,” he said, and 
held out a feeble hand. “Are you come alone, 
child?” 

She kissed the withered hand and beckoned Ar- 
mand, who came forward into the firelight and knelt 
by him. “We are wedded,” she whispered. 

“You!” he cried to him joyfully. “I knew they 
lied ! I felt you would come back. You loved each 
other. I saw it, my children, long ago, at Williams- 
burg. She was very brave. Monsieur, as you are 
brave. You are fit for each other. I too,” he said, 
“once . . ” 

He stopped, less it seemed to her from grief, than 
from a wish not to cast a shadow upon the happiness 
that she felt her face must show. 

“I have nearly finished with this world,” he said, 
“but I would I might live to see the cause triumph. 
Then I would be satisfied. Seven years — seven years, 
and the cursed rebellion still lasts !” 


400 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Neither Anne nor Armand spoke; in her heart 
was a great terror lest he should ask her too much. 

“I have served my kin g,” he went on, after a 
pause, “and they tell me now his cause is in peril. 
In peril ! Virginia’s soul disloyal ! Virginia’s hand 
raised against her sovereign! I never thought to 
live so long! And Washington — the lad I knew 
and loved so well — Washington the head and front 
of it! How he used to ride here about Greenway 
Court ... he sat his saddle like Dick Steele 
— Dick the scholar — my mate, when we were troopers 
in the ‘Blues !’ Anne, where is George ?” 

She pressed his great, wasted palm to her cheek. 
“General Washington is still at York-town,” she 
answered, in a scarce audible voice. 

“At York-town ? Still bearding Cornwallis ? Has 
no fleet come yet to blow the rebels out?” 

Anne scarce knew how to reply. “A fleet came, 
but it was the French.” 

“The French!” repeated the old man bitterly. 
“Aye, when the lion is sick, there gather the jackals! 
They take comfort of England’s necessity to strike 
her in the back! Would I could fight again — 
these old hands should strike once more for my 
king !” He was silent and his knotted knuckles 
shook gauntly against the skins. 

Later he looked up at her as she moved about the 


PASSING OF THE OLD EEGIME 401 


room and smiled. “The old man wanted you/* he 
said. “Stay as long as you can.” 

Next day he slept much of the forenoon and 
Anne and Armand talked low-voiced with the doc- 
tor on the porch. Down below them, curving past 
the knoll on which the lodge stood, ran the road to 
Winchester. As they sat talking, a long red line 
came marching up the slope from the spangled ford 
- — a line of red-coats dotted here and there with an 
active spot of buff-and-blue. Anne leaned to look, 
and rose with a backward glance toward the door. 

“The York-town prisoners come,” she spoke in 
a hushed tone. “They march to the prison-pen at 
Winchester. He must not see them.” 

“He sleeps now,” Armand answered. “Let us 
go to the foot of the hill.” 

The three walked down the twisting path. Along 
the edge of the high-road the prisoners had halted 
for a breath, their scarlet coats, so brave at York- 
town, now dust-stained and dull. The detachment 
of the Virginian line who guarded them, sat their 
horses, watchful and alert. 

A spring babbled from the rocks a few yards 
above, to collect in a runnel by the roadway, and 
about this, roily and sandy as it was, the prisoners 
pushed and strove to drink from their hands. A 
word of pity came to Anne’s lips; she stooped to 


402 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


the spring, filled the cup that lay there and ran 
fleetly down, where one of the melancholy caravan 
sat on a boulder, his face in his hands, his whole 
attitude one of weariness and misery. 

She touched his shoulder as she proffered the drink 
and he lifted his head, to leap to his feet and stare 
at her wildly, while she shrank back with a low- 
drawn exclamation. 

It was Jarrat, and the branded, hopeless passion 
of the man, glutted with gall and wormwood, at 
sight of that face with Armand so near, blent in 
a last flare of waspish rage — a curse and a blow which 
sent the cup whirling. Frightened, she ran hack. 

Then, as Armand darted down, a guard spurred 
wrathfully up, sending his horse against Jarrat with 
a shock that drove him reeling to the center of 
the re-forming file. The rider turned, doffed his 
hat and waved his hand to her with a brave, boyish 
smile. 

“The ugly brute of a Hessian !” rasped the doctor 
savagely. “Knew you the lieutenant. Mistress?” 

“’Twas Francis Byrd of Westover,” Anne an- 
swered. Then softly to herself: “Poor Frank!” 

As they came up the path, she gave a cry of dis- 
may. J oe was wheeling his master’s couch out upon 
the porch into the autumn sunshine. “He has seen 
them !” she whispered to Armand. 


PASSING OF THE OLD REGIME 403 


So indeed he had. The torn red line had caught 
that keen gaze, so aged but unfilmed. 

“Why . . ,” he started in surprise. “ ’Tis 
the soldiers of the king! They are come! Lift 
me; lift my head higher, Joe ! 

“They are guarded,” he said then, slowly; 
^guarded under arms! What means that?” His 
tone was amazement shot through with a piteous 
doubt. 

At this, tears glistened on the girl's cheek. How 
should she tell him? “My dear, dear Lord!” she 
faltered, “York-town has fallen. Cornwallis has 
surrendered to General Washington.” 

The old baron’s head turned on the skins. 

“Fallen !” he cried in a terrible voice. “Fallen !” 

He raised himself with difficulty upon his elbow. 

“The armies of the South! ’Tis the failure of 
the Virginia campaign! ’Tis the end, then. The 
king’s cause lost in America. Lost! And George 
. . my lad George, leading the rebels to the last? 

Heart of God !” 

He put one hand, shaking, over his eyes that were 
so dim. The other lay in Anne’s, and she was cry- 
ing weakly above it. Armand’s head was bowed 
and she could not see his face. The doctor had 
turned away. 

My Lord seemed to realize that she was weeping. 


404 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


“There, there,” he said at last gently, drawing 
his hand from hers. “’Tis not for the young to 
sorrow, my dear. I am an old man — an old man, 
and the king has lost . . . Take me to bed 
now, Joe ; ’tis time for me to die !” 

Joe came forward and pushed the couch through 
the doorway and to his room. When he had been 
undressed, Anne came and sat by him while tears 
ran down Joe’s face, in the shadow. But the baron 
never lifted his head again. 

Once in the night they heard him stir, and Anne 
stole softly to the bed-side. He was muttering of 
dead days, of England and the old regiment of his 
youth — broken bits that she could not gather. 
Through the small hours of the morning his strength 
ebbed; they thought he would not rally. 

But just as the first dawn paled on the eastern 
window he spoke — clearly and in a loud voice : 

“That our Sovereign Lord is lawful and rightful 
King of this Realm and of all other His Majesty's 
Dominions and Countries thereto belonging .... 
To be true and faithful to the King and his heirs 
. . . . and truth and faith to bear of life and 
limb and terrene honour . ... So help me God 
and Eis holy Evangelist !” 

It was the oath of fealty of a peer of the realm. 

He did not speak after that. The old regime was 


PASSING OF THE OLD KEGIME 405 


passed, and lie, too, was to pass out with the old 
regime . 

A stanch heart and a true. Would we were all 
as gentle and as brave ! 

He lies buried beneath the chancel of the little 
parish church at Winchester, of which he was the 
first vestryman, and which is built on land that was 
gift of his bounty. The beautiful valley of the 
Shenandoah that he loved stretches wide and sweet 
about him, and not so far away ripples the shallow 
river across which he led his streaming hounds when 
he rode down for a week’s hunting at Mt. Vernon. 

Greenway Court stands tenantless above the river. 
The moonlight loves to steal away from clustering 
hamlets and waving, golden fields to silver its roof, 
and Indian summer strews its dusty glories on 
the empty porch to keep brilliant and tender the 
memory of his life in the Virginia woods, for those 
who read Virginia’s past or love her present or trust 
her future. 

There came a day, two months after my Lord 
Fairfax was gone out for the last time from Green- 
way Court, that Anne and Armand stood together 
and alone, in the deep-bordered garden of Gladden 
Hall. The old-time voices had come to it again 
and hope and care had repaired its wanton ruin. 


406 


HEARTS COURAGEOUS 


Soft clouds ermined the mantle of sky and floated 
mirrored in the frosty blue river below them. A 
little waking wind was skurrying the falling leaves. 

Their eyes dwelt upon each other in a gaze that 
was like speech. The spell of a deathless dream 
was upon them — their lives enfolded as their arms. 
He drew her to him and bent his head to her lips’ 
soft flame. 

“You will come back, soon — soon !” she said. 

“Yes,” he answered. “When peace is sure. And 
’twill be soon now, thank God!” 

“And then?” 

He knew what she would have asked. A look of 
sadness came in his face. 

“Then we shall live here — always — here in Vir- 
ginia.” 

“Oh!” she breathed joyfully. “And France?” 

“I have loved France !” he cried. “I have dreamed 
glorious sunset dreams of what she might become. 
But the dreams have passed. The storm is gather- 
ing over her — I see it, have heard it! Already the 
people look with hatred upon my order. They will 
sacrifice us when the time is ripe, without distinc- 
tion — us who would have given our lives to help 
them. France is not yet ready for liberty. The 
blood of her best must flow first. To go back 
would be to lose life to no purpose. Here, and here 


PASSING OF THE OLD REGIME 407 


alone upon this earth, is Liberty! And to Liberty 
my life belongs !” 

“To Liberty,” she whispered, smiling, “to Liberty, 
and — to me!” 







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St. Louis Globe-Democrat 

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volume that everybody will want. The story is a 
bubbling romance of the German imperial court 
with an American girl heroine. 

Decorated and illustrated in color by 
John Cecil Clay 
I zmo, cloth, $1.50 


The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis 


A STORY OF THE SIMPLE LIFE 

THE 

HAPPY AVERAGE 

By BRAND WHITLOCK 
Author of The 13th District and Her Infinite Variety 


Mr. Whitlock has done more than simply repeat 
his earlier success. He has achieved a new one. 
In The Happy Average he has voiced a deep-seated 
human sympathy for the unheroic. Life 

A most delightful romance that is as fresh as the 
flowers of May. Pittsburg Leader 

As an example of a good, healthy, entertaining 
and human story. The Happy Average must be 
given a place in the front rank. 

Nashville American 

Not only the best book that has come from Mr. 
Whidock’s pen, but a really noteworthy achieve- 
ment in fiction. Chicago Tribune 

!2mo, cloth, price, #1.50 


The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis 


THE LIFE AND LOVES OF LORD BYRON 

THE 

CASTAWAY 

“ Three great men ruined in one year — a king, a cad and a 
castaway. ’ ’ — Byron. 

By HALLIE ERMINIE RIVES 
Author of Hearts Courageous 


Lord Byron's personal beauty, his brilliancy, his 
genius, his possession of a title, his love affairs, his 
death in a noble cause, all make him the most mag- 
netic figure in English literature. In Miss Rives’ s 
novel the incidents of his career stand out in ab- 
sorbing power and enthralling force. 

The most profoundly sympathetic, vivid and true 
portrait of Byron ever drawn. 

Calvin Dill Wilson, author of Byron — Man and Poet 

Dramatic scenes, thrilling incidents, strenuous 
events follow one another; pathos, revenge and 
passion ; a strong love ; and through all these, under 
all these, is the poet, the man, George Gordon. 

Grand Rapids Herald 

With eight illustrations in color by 
Howard Chandler Christy 
1 2 mo, cloth, price, $ i . oo everywhere 


The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis 


A BOOK TO MAKE THE SPHINX LAUGH 

IN THE BISHOP S 
CARRIAGE 

By MIRIAM MICHELSON 


From the moment when, in another girl’s chin- 
chilla coat, Nance Olden jumps into the unknown 
carriage, and, snuggling up to the solemn owner, 
calls him “Daddy,” till she makes her final bow, 
a happy wife and a triumphant actress, she holds 
your fancy captive and your heart in thrall. 

If jaded novel readers want a new sensation, they 
will get it here. Chicago Tribune 

For genuine, unaffected enjoyment, read the ad- 
ventures of this dashing desperado in petticoats. 

Philadelphia Item 

It is beguiling, bewitching, bristling with origi- 
nality ; light enough for the laziest invalid to rest his 
brain over, profound enough to serve as a sermon 
to the humanitarian. San Francisco Bulletin 

Illustrated by Harrison Fisher 
1 2mo, cloth, price, #1.50 


The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis 


A ROMANCE OF THE DOLLAR MARK 


THE COST 

Br DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS 
Author of Golden Fleece 


A masterly novel, interesting to the point of fas- 
cination, analytic to the point of keenness, thor- 
oughly well written with complete understanding, 
and entirely committed to advocacy of the best things 
in life. Wallace Rice in Chicago Examiner 

Rapid and vivid, sure and keen, light and graceful. 

New York Times 

It is a story full of virile impulse. It treats of men 
of hardy endeavor, battling for leadership in the world 
of commerce and politics. If you want a novel that 
is intensely modern and intensely full of speed and 
spirit, you have it in The Cost. 

Bailey Millard in San Francisco Examiner . 

With sixteen illustrations by Harrison Fisher 
i2mo, cloth, price, $1.50 


The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis 


LOVE, POLITICS AND PELF 

THE 

GRAFTERS 

By FRANCIS LYNDE 
Author of The Master of Appleby 


One of the best examples of a new and distinctly 
American class of fiction — the kind which finds ro- 
mance and even sensational excitement in business, 
politics, finance and law. The Outlook 

Its sweeping sentences fire the blood like new wine. 

Boston Post 

Telephone, telegraph, locomotive, skirl, click, 
thunder through the pages in a way unprecedented 
in fiction. It is an amazingly modern book. 

New York Times 

Virile, with the rugged strength of the West, The 
Grafters is like the current of a deep river, vigorous 
and forceful. Louisville Courier- Journal 

Illustrated by Arthur I. Keller 
1 2mo, cloth, price, ^1.50 


The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis 



A GOOD DETECTIVE STORY 


THE 

FILIGREE BALL 

By ANNA KATHERINE GREEN 
Author of “The Leavenworth Case” 


This is something more than a mere detective story j it is 
a thrilling romance — a romance of mystery and crime where 
a shrewd detective helps to solve the mystery. The plot is a 
novel and intricate one, carefully worked out. There are con- 
stant accessions to the main mystery, so that the reader can 
not possibly imagine the conclusion. The story is clean-cut 
and wholesome, with a quality that might be called manly. 
The characters are depicted so as to make a living impression. 
Cora Tuttle is a fine creation, and the flash of love which she 
gives the hero is wonderfully well done. Unlike many mystery 
stories The Filigree Ball is not disappointing at the end. The 
characters most liked but longest suspected are proved not only 
guiltless, but above suspicion. It is a story to be read with a 
rush and at a sitting, for no one can put it down until the 
mystery is solved. 

Illustrated by C. M. Relyea. 
i2mo. Cloth, Price, $1.50 


The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis 




























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